


His brother's keeper

by tzigane, Zaganthi (Caffiends)



Category: Stargate Atlantis, Traders (TV 1995)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Parent/Child Incest, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sibling Incest, Twins, Young Rodney McKay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-28
Updated: 2009-02-28
Packaged: 2018-06-08 22:37:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 102,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6876799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tzigane/pseuds/tzigane, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffiends/pseuds/Zaganthi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carter was following the red line along the hall, as if it went somewhere special. Rodney was going to have to remember which of them went where because there was a green one upstairs, and down here, there were red and yellow, too. "Well, I think you'll be happiest continuing with the generator project. There's an opening to do some work in Siberia on those, but since you have your brother, I don't think that's a good idea."</p><p>Since he had his brother. He'd ask what that was supposed to mean, but. Siberia. He'd just rather not ask. "No, I, uh, think I'd prefer to stay here where I can keep an eye on the house and all." Cats. Make sure that the cats didn't eat a whole bag of crunchies in one day and explode, make sure Grant didn't try to feed them cereal. He couldn't even think of what Grant would do if he wasn't there, but Siberia sounded hellish.</p><p>"Oh! I didn't mean... well, you know, but in any case. If it's all right, I plan to have you share space with Bill Lee. He's been working on some of the more obscure pieces coming through the gate. I think you'll enjoy it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have two co-authors who humor me when I want to write the same story twice; Another version of [Twice Over](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6876493).

Sometimes he turned his head the wrong way, moved too quick, and from the corner of his eye he swore he saw the lamp bend and warp, jiggling before he snapped upright. And usually, usually if some visual trick set in, he'd close his eyes and put his head down on the table and hope, hope that it wasn't a leading edge symptom and that he wouldn't be interacting vividly with his own hallucinations any time soon. That it was just a trick of his balance, of his inner ear functionality, and not the siren song of madness coming to get him. Even if it had been, he was fairly sure that he could have hung in, medicated well. He was intelligent, he'd had a better chance, he, but it was there, hovering at the corners of his mind, a sweetly lurking promise that threatened to demolish him. 

It wasn't as if he didn't have the reason for it. He was a firm believer in the stress theory; that the human mind could only take so much stress before the walls started to collapse and every dormant possibility triggered out of reaction. His brother had it; he didn't. Their circumstances had been different enough to keep Rodney from it, he believed, but close enough that he wasn't sure when the disease might lurk out and get him. 

Moving was unsettling, and he wasn't sure if the fact that they were in a new house, surrounded by boxes, with the two cats leaping and springing off of them at will, unsettled him or his brother more. 

He had a new job that started in a week, and nothing but time. The house was wide open, big windows, lots of light. High ceilings, wooden floors that invited Jelly to click click click across it at random times of the night. Grant had fallen asleep talking about building a cat tree for them, covered in carpet. He was having trouble sleeping just then, while Grant was out, out like a light. 

He liked the nights where he didn't dream the best, when he could sleep. 

On those nights, he could lie down, close his eyes, and shut the world out. It was as simple as getting in bed, hugging onto his pillow and closing his eyes, and come the morning he'd be muscle sore and well rested, despite any drool spots or bits of cat hair that had adhered themselves to his face in the night. He could swing his feet over the edge of the bed and go about his business for the day, no contemplation needed, no extra thought required. 

Then there were the surreal dreams -- where work invaded into his mind carrying torches and pitchforks, inducing haunted waking-dream thoughts of equations and problems that he solved in his sleep or confronted and finished there. Those left him mentally aching when he woke up in the morning, half-remembering an earth-shattering solution that could have revolutionized science as it existed, only it hadn't existed in anything but the formless depths of his dreams. 

The nightmares were at once the worst and the most banal of his dreams. They were predictable, well-worn horrors that haunted him in his waking hours if he wasn't careful. 

Never mind that just then, he was staring at a new, unfamiliar wall, blank of anything in particular, a nice bland beige. That alone should have been enough to make it easier, less bothersome. It wasn't anything like before, like the life he and Grant had lived when they were small. Something about it just made him uneasy, that sense of being somewhere he didn't yet belong. 

The song that played quietly in the back of his head most of the time was stronger, too, for the new circumstances. That happened now and then, and it wasn't so bad. Not until Grant started humming it, because then Rodney wondered if he had, too, or if it was just that thing they didn't talk about between them. 

One of many things they didn't talk about. Grant had a room of his own, but that was only when Grant felt like it. Rodney had a king-sized bed, soft sheets. The jersey sheets were pretty well used, three sets rotating around, but it was a texture that didn't make Grant scratch at himself in his sleep, that lulled them both. Sleeping on old t-shirts. Rodney shifted, stretched, and decided to try Not-Sleeping on his back, adding the ceiling to the wall for him to stare at. 

Snuffling snores shifted, lightened, and Grant rolled closer to him, curled at his side. That was something. That was comfort, anyway, like the way the cats shifted in protest at his movement. Familiarities were important. Tomorrow, he would put up the pictures and posters that normally resided on the walls of his room. That would help. 

Tomorrow, he would help Grant rebuild his room into the oddly patterned space where he retreated when he needed to. Tomorrow, he could test the tuning on his piano, and if they were up to it, he could get Grant what they needed to make the 'Best Cat Tree Ever', which was a good idea because Peanut Butter had a habit of climbing the sofa like it was Mount Everest. He was huge, a great big weight of a cat that was pinning down the bedding somewhere between his legs and Grant's, while Jelly was who knew where. Probably curled up behind Grant's knees. 

Rodney shifted, curled onto his side even though he knew his back would hate him in the morning. He could see Grant sleeping across from him, his lashes long and thick on his cheeks, his mustache moving just a little beneath the pressure of his breath. Back at Area 51, they'd both kept facial hair. They'd looked enough alike that they'd switched places on occasion, when one or the other of them felt like they might strangle their coworkers if they didn't have a day away. Grant was just as brilliant as Rodney, even if he was less stable. He was mostly harmless, though, so things worked out well. 

Now, they had vastly, immeasurably different jobs, and he didn't think he could get away with it anymore, so he'd shaved. He could do that, where he knew Grant liked, wanted to keep his facial hair. He said it made him feel adult, and Rodney knew that feeling, even though they were so old that comfort actions like that shouldn't have mattered anymore. 

Shouldn't have, but did. 

Rodney closed his eyes, stretched an arm to mug tightly onto his pillow, and decided to concentrate on the fact that he wasn't alone. It was better than counting sheep. Counting sheep just made him think, and before he knew it, he was counting sheep in Mersenne primes, which wasn't at all helpful for sleeping. Sometimes he thought about taking one of Grant's Seroquel, but he'd seen what happened when Grant forgot one, or when they didn't remember to go by the pharmacy to pick up a refill. One night of sleep wasn't worth a week spent awake and scatterbrained. 

He wasn't as bad off as Grant, or he was more controlled, or something. He was lucky, that was what he was, because the tables could have been turned so easily, and the only thing that soothed that worry down was the knowledge that his brother would've done the same thing for him that he did for Grant. They looked out for each other, as much as Grant could. Rodney helped, tried to provide structure for Grant to function within, and Grant helped keep him grounded, kept him from snapping. 

Rodney shifted, opened his eyes and then closed them all over again before he decided that the being flushed down a toilet feeling was sleep's onset. 

All things considered, he could live with that. 

* * *

> Rodney loved college. 
> 
> He loved learning. He loved perfectly bland, safe, seasonless food from the cafeteria. He loved having a room of his own with a bed of his own and never being afraid that he might wake up to find someone else there doing something he didn't want. 
> 
> The only thing he didn't love about college was the fact that he was alone. 
> 
> It sort of clashed with the thought that he should be there without waking up to find someone else there doing something he didn't want, but there was a safe way not to be alone, there was an alternative that he missed. One driving test away, that was all, and he was going on Saturday, and then he could fix things. It wasn't as if he was worried about school, about his homework, because the courses were easy. They wouldn't let him just skip the gen Eds, so he had the alternative of doing the minimum to pass, or going above and beyond to a disgusting level. 
> 
> He alternated, dependent on what the course was. Literature was stultifying, with people who kept saying that this or that character did something for a reason, when clearly there was no reason involved whatsoever. Psychology had been fascinating, and terrifying. Business classes, though... those had been amazing, numbers dancing in the back of his mind in waves and patterns that his brother would love to see. 
> 
> But it was the harder maths and sciences that he was allowed that really set his mind on fire. He'd only been allowed to take the low level ones, but he'd blown them away and he was looking forward to that 'more' the higher level classes promised, waiting for the challenge of it. The business, econ courses he'd had to take would always have a soft spot in his heart, though. His stepfather had asked him what classes he thought Jeannie might like, and Rodney lied and said the business ones. Because hell if he knew what she'd like -- being the center of all attention, beloved and stuck up on a pedestal, maybe. 
> 
> He figured that the theater classes on campus could satisfy that. 
> 
> It wasn't that Jeannie was a bad kid. It was just that... well. Circumstances being what they were, he couldn't find it in him to feel any closeness for her. How could he, when things were the way they were? When Grant wasn't with him, even when Rodney was at home? 
> 
> When life was just all, all fucked up, he couldn't even feign closeness to her, because she was normal and he wasn't and Grant wasn't and he just couldn't care. He wanted to beat his stepfather's head in, because the man was a moron, or complicit, or both, because the complicit part implied a certain level of lack of brain function, and Rodney faked interactions badly. There was just nothing else for it. 
> 
> He had the whole weekend planned already -- the test, and he'd complained about too many projects and not enough time, so they wouldn't expect to see him for at least a week. 
> 
> He had it all planned, down to the last minute. He had packed, and then unpacked, and then packed again. He'd gotten a student job so that he could afford the things he would need, and he had been selling plasma to add to that. His stepfather had brought him a beat-up shitty old Ford Escort with a proud smile, as if it would be fantastic for Rodney. 
> 
> He deserved more than a beat up shitty Ford Escort, but it was going to be their escape, so that was fine. That would do. He had it all planned out perfectly in his head, and they were going to make it, going to make it just fine. He was going to get his brother back, and after that the possibilities were endless. 
> 
> He was going to get his brother back from that house. It was only two days away. 
> 
> It had been sixteen years. He could wait that long.

* * *

> This was so cool. Very cool. Very amazingly cool, and Rodney got to do this all the time. All the time, every day, and Grant hummed to himself with a special kind of delight. Wormholes. Real, live wormholes that weren't theories made up of numbers and, and conjectural elements heavier than anything currently on the periodical table, the heaviest of which was Ununbium, which didn't count. After all, it wasn't a naturally occurring element, and that didn't seem fair, now did it? 
> 
> He wondered where they put 'Naquadah', or however they spelled it, on the table. If it was an element, because while it was naturally occurring, it didn't occur on Earth, which made his mind spin as he looked over the simulation and tweaked it again. Nice, harmless, with pictures of the real thing, but some of the real things they had in the lab were fantastic, and the lighting was really spectacular, too. 
> 
> The only shame of it was that people kept wanting to talk to him. It was nice, though, that Rodney was upstairs running Cat 5 and looking over the shutdown list for the day and hopefully he'd feel better when they got home. 
> 
> It made Grant sad, when Rodney didn't feel well. Even if he got to, got to look at all of the cool stuff, and help Rodney with problems Grant really wasn't supposed to know about, it made him feel helpless. It was, Rodney was always there to help him. Doing Rodney's job, that didn't help Rodney. Well, it did, but it didn't. Rodney was a different kind of sick than Grant, and so the things that worked for him didn't work for Rodney. 
> 
> For a long time, nothing had worked for Grant, either, but now there were new drugs, drugs he liked, drugs that (mostly) worked. There were still signs, of course, and side-effects, yes, but still. Still, it was nice, it was very nice, that he had better control now, and also he slept like a rock. That was nice, too. Grant liked being able to sleep, and he felt safe, now. Safe to sleep in the big bed with his brother. 
> 
> He enjoyed the world around him, now, from beds to work to sitting outside in the sunlight and watching their bird feeder, to watching TV, to... Everything. He could do everything he wanted. Without the fear that lurked, and lurked, and had lurked over to grab his brother, which was a shame because the simulations were being very cooperative for Grant just then, and he liked that. Wormholes. Somewhere out there, people were stepping to new stars. Meeting aliens, and seeing new skies. 
> 
> It was brilliant, all of it, and he happily typed in the last commands he needed to make everything run properly and then.... 
> 
> "Dr. McKay? Ah, I'm having some problems with the device that just arrived from the SGC. It keeps sending feedback into the interface and resetting the programming code we're using and...." 
> 
> He was a Doctor McKay. It had been easy, but they didn't call him that upstairs. He'd taken a GED after time in foster care, when Rodney had been taken in, too, and their lives had gone to hell for a brief while, because Rodney had been going to college and out there, living, and it was cruel of the state to say he was a child and needed normalcy, and sometimes Grant thought that was what had hurt Rodney the most until they'd both petitioned to be emancipated. Their 'stepfather' hadn't protested, and had helped with the paperwork, and Jeannie had asked too many questions, mostly _'why is Mommy in jail?'_ and _'why are there two Mers?'_ , and Grant blinked at the man who was looking at him with expectation. 
> 
> "Here, let me look at it." Because that was what his brother did and that was what he did. It was intuitive, hands on the keys, scrolling through the code. 
> 
> It was simple to see where the problem rested, and so Grant tried to be like Rodney. He didn't manage it well, but he tried. "Oh, this is ridiculous. You, you, you should have been able to figure this out on your own, it was within the first five lines of code," he chided, pretending to scowl like Rodney even as he fixed it and handed it back to the minion. Rodney had minions. That was just as fun as wormholes and naquadah. 
> 
> His brother had minions, and he got to spend the whole day play-acting, which was glorious. They probably thought that Rodney was having a good, no, great day, because he didn't cuss half as much as his brother did. Rodney was a great swearer when he got going on something, used them as all parts of sentences until the pieces fit right if he was in the wrong mood. 
> 
> "Oh, uh... Sorry, sorry sir..." 
> 
> "You should be," Grant sniffed, and it was nearly impossible, keeping from giggling. Still, the minion went away, and that meant Grant could go back to the swirling math behind his eyes until the phone rang and Rodney said it was time to go. 
> 
> Rodney encouraged him to write it down, to scrawl it out, and he had books and books of it at home, what he could put down, what was tangible enough, and Rodney scanned through it and smiled and hugged him and talked him through more logical permutations and then declared that they were an amazing team, the two of them, and that if they were less stupid about security clearances, Grant would've been right down there in the office all the time with him. 
> 
> And Rodney did have chalkboards, white boards, chalk and markers... 
> 
> It made for a wonderful day. No one could really tell their scribbling handwriting apart, which was so, so funny. They assumed that Rodney and Grant were both ambidextrous, and not that Grant was left-handed, Rodney more prone to using his right. It was all good fun, really, and when the phone did ring, it felt okay to pick it up. "McKay." 
> 
> _~"Rodney? It's five. And I want to strangle the people at the DOIM."~_ Grant heard a voice in the background say, _~"I'll help,"~_ and he wanted to laugh, because that was Robert, Robert all curly hair and glasses that made his eyes look tiny, and it must have been a long day upstairs, too. 
> 
> "Mmm, yes, well. I was starting to contemplate killing off the minions, so I suppose it must be time to leave. Actually. I'll be upstairs in five," he promised his brother, and began shutting things down without hanging up the phone. Just in case Rodney had something else to say. 
> 
> _~"Good, great, thanks."~_ It was hard to tell how Rodney's day had been, but he'd find out soon. Rodney hung up, and Grant did after a lingering moment, watching Rodney's computer programs close out. 
> 
> He didn't bother telling anyone goodbye; the minions were wrapped up in their assigned duties, one and all, so he was leaving Rodney's job no worse off than it had been when he'd arrived. Grant grabbed the bag in which he and Rodney always brought lunch, and headed for the elevators. 
> 
> It didn't take long to make his way to the tech department after he reached the right floor, and Rodney was waiting for him when he arrived. 
> 
> Rodney already had his backpack over his shoulder, waiting and looking eager, and the only thing that tipped off one was which was that Rodney had the car keys in his right pocket and Grant never kept the keys, even when they drove. He had a spare in his bookbag, but never in his pocket. 
> 
> That was for screwdrivers. 
> 
> "Ready to go?" Grant asked, trying not to be as brightly interested as usual. It was obvious Rodney was ready, and they'd be going home. Going home meant feeding cats and making supper, good food that didn't have the things to which both of them were allergic. What wasn't there to like about that? 
> 
> "Yep." Rodney failed to be that brightly interested, and it made Grant smile as he turned to head out with his brother. To head home, to all of the nice and wonderful things they had. 
> 
> Maybe he could have chocolate for dessert.

* * *

> All of his crayons were going in boxes. Even the new ones, the ones that weren't big and made for un-deft fingers, because he had small hands, little hands, and he could hold little crayons and not chew on them when he was doing his maths. He liked maths and the books he had, that his daddy had given him, and they were all in boxes, or bags, suit-bags, and Marion couldn't find his stuffed cat. He wished he could find the stuffy, because Kitty was a good toy, and it shouldn't have been in a box, so he dragged Marion with him from box to box, peeking into the open ones. 
> 
> "Not here." 
> 
> Marion snuffled beside him and reached up a hand to rub his damp eyes. "'s losted. I losted Kitty, Meredith." 
> 
> Except Kitty wasn't losted, not really. Kitty just was missing, that was all, and if they looked then Kitty would come out soon. That's what Daddy said, always, that things weren't losted for good, not ever. That everything would be okay, but now they were moving, and Meredith hadn't seen Daddy in a while, so maybe Daddy had been wrong. 
> 
> Maybe Daddy was losted, too. 
> 
> "Just in a box. Everything goes into boxes, because we're moving." He turned away from the box, and hugged onto Marion because he didn't like Marion crying. "When we get there, everything comes out of boxes, and we have Kitty again." And crayons. He wasn't going to look back into the box, because he'd already been snapped at by Mommy for taking things out of boxes when she was trying to get it all in boxes, and if they weren't going to be good boys and help then they could stay out of the way. 
> 
> Mer and Marion were good at staying out of the way. Especially now that Daddy was gone. 
> 
> He could feel Marion shaking against him even if he couldn't hear anything louder than softly hiccoughed breaths. Mommy didn't like it if they made noise. She said that was why Daddy left, was because they made noise, because they were de-man-ding. Because there was something wrong with them that made them stupid, and she was ashamed. 
> 
> They weren't stupid. Meredith knew he was smart and knew Marion was smart, because they did all sorts of things together. Marion just liked his things, he liked Kitty and he, he liked the bigger crayons because they were better for making stacks with, and that was what Marion liked to do best. He built, blocks and legos, and paper. They only had the soft scissors, but Marion made things with paper that Meredith knew he couldn't do. They were smart, like Daddy. Meredith knew maths! 
> 
> He squeezed Marion, made quiet noises at him. Not shh, that was too loud. Mommy might notice, and Mommy noticing anything was never good. Not for him, and especially not for Marion. 
> 
> Usually, Mommy just said the mean things, about how she wished they'd never been born, or that funny a word that Meredith thought must mean the same thing. Sometimes, though, it was worse, and Meredith tried to get Marion to stop crying. He tried, and finally Marion was quiet against him, limp and tired and cried out. 
> 
> He just hugged onto him, petted at his hair. "We'll find Kitty," Meredith whispered. "Okay? We'll find Kitty when we's move. Maybe Daddy took her." 
> 
> Marion let out a hot, sticky breath against Meredith's cheek, fingers stroking clumsily on Meredith's arm. "Oh-oh-okay," he whispered back, and that was good. That was perfect, because Mommy hadn't noticed them. 
> 
> Maybe, if they were very good and very quiet, Mommy wouldn't notice them for a long, long time.

* * *

He was all nerves, and Grant couldn't decide if he wanted the Rainier cherry or the Royal Ann. Grant, funnily, never had nerves about work. He showed up, did his thing and went home at the end of the day, basking in it. 

Rodney was torn between shoring up his sense of bravado and falling apart at the seams. Because this was big, a big step up, getting to work hands on with the Stargate, and possibly reading everything he could get his hands on about Samantha Carter had been a bad idea. 

Okay. Definitely reading everything he could get his hands on about Carter had been a bad idea, because it was intimidating. She was scary-nice and very blonde and also very smart, and it made Rodney act like something of a bastard now and then because he felt defensive. 

"Rainier," Grant finally decided, and plopped the bag into the cart. "Can we have chocolate, Rodney?" Not Mer, anymore, and oh. That had been a long time. Thinking about it was undoubtedly not a good sign. 

In the morning, he had to show up to work and finish the in-processing -- new ID card, passes, retina scans, passwords, and the day after that Grant started with the DOIM, and that made Rodney smile. Because Grant would fall into it and fall in love with it, no nerves at all. "Yeah. Yeah, let me get some bananas..." Mostly, he tried to eat healthily, cook real food. It kept them healthy, and it was weird that most of his cookbooks had come from their stepfather and then more recently from their half-sister. 

For a while, when she was born, he thought she might be his daughter. Or Grant's, but then harried biology research had assured him that no. No. 

No. She was one hundred percent Ernest Pembroke's daughter, from head to toe. Rodney had never been so relieved to have a fear refuted, and he had never mentioned that fear to his brother. Grant had enough to worry about without that particular terror raising its nasty head. 

"Chocolate, Rodney," Grant said again, even though they both knew he shouldn't be eating it. Still. They'd just moved, and that meant treats all around, whatever they could do for one another that would be comforting. It was just the way things were. 

They'd always been that way, a little too comfort focused, maybe. Rodney didn't care -- they'd had enough not-comfort that he didn't mind. "Okay, but you're getting the good kind," Rodney declared, putting a bunch of bananas into their cart. 

"Don't care." Grant really didn't. He loved chocolate, even the cheap kind. At least it was easy to make him happy. "Can we have Kraft dinner for supper, Rodney? With the, the other cheese you put in sometimes. Ohh. Apples." They were a little too close to the oranges, though, so Grant didn't touch them. He just looked at them sadly. 

Rodney leaned and grabbed a bag on the far side of the display, away from the oranges, and dropped them into the cart that he was pushing. Grant would want them washed, maybe excessively, but that was all right. It wasn't as if bruised apples were a bad food. "That sounds good. What else? I don't want to have to come back here for a few days." 

The seriousness of that expression made Rodney want to smile. "I can't think of anything, Rodney. Except I think I'd like peanut butter and jelly. Can we have peanut butter and jelly?" 

"Yeah." Of course. Rodney stood up straighter, started to push the cart towards the bakery. He'd get a fresh loaf, already sliced, and some of those cardboard rolls of biscuits and cinnamon buns. They'd already gotten cat food and litter at the pet store at the first half of their outing, so that was taken -- ah, milk. They needed more milk. "Absolutely. Aren't you at all nervous about tomorrow, Grant?" 

"N, no. No, because, because it won't be hard. It'll all just be the same as before, except no time spent downstairs, because of the, the scans. And things." Grant looked at him and shrugged, and it was clear that he had no aversion to the new job. He might get bored, and Rodney might have bad days, but they'd just have to muddle through them on their own. 

It really wasn't the end of the world, and Rodney was surprised by how well his brother rolled with things, sometimes. Not always, but sometimes. "I'll still tell you about downstairs, though. What I can. Because..." Well, because. Because he was his brother and just as smart as Rodney was. "Hey, I'll meet you in the candy aisle? I'm going to get the peanut butter and Jelly." And other things, just real quick. 

"Mmm!" And Grant was off, happily looking for chocolate, any kind of chocolate he could find. Rodney would probably have to pry the cheap kind from his fingers. 

If he was lucky, Grant would waste time looking for the Aero Bars that he could never find in American stores. Rodney watched him go, then set off to find the jelly and peanut butter. He knew what Grant liked best, and there was no changing that routine. 

The bakery was easy to suss out by smell alone, all yeast and things that were undoubtedly good to eat and terrible for anyone's health. Still, at least it tended to lack the preservatives that came with the packaged stuff on the bread aisle. Sometimes, that made both of them break out in hives. He did better with the freshly baked things, and Rodney eyed a few of the loaves before he leaned down to pick one up. Maybe he could grab a box of their turnovers, too. He was pretty sure he'd seen apple over there somewhere, and Grant loved those. 

"Dr. McKay?" 

Rodney's spine stiffened, and he turned to see who was asking. The sight of Major Samantha Carter standing there, a basket over her forearm, face open and questioning, made him nervous. 

Oh, god. He'd wanted to get the nervous part of the next day over with, but not that quickly. He stood up, and dropped the bread into the cart. "Doctor Carter! This is, uh, a surprise." He guessed they both lived nearby, then. It was a nice area, sort of upscale in an affordable way that didn't leave Rodney in fear of his house and car, or leaving Grant home alone for an hour. 

"It's nice to see you here," she said, tilting a brilliant smile at him that made him twitch a little with nerves. It reminded him disturbingly of pictures of his mother. "First day tomorrow?" 

"Yeah. Just... stocking up on groceries." Getting settled in, blah blah, small talk that he'd always been horrible at. He moved, kept moving, looking over the turnovers for the apple. "So, you live around here, Doctor Carter?" 

"Oh, just a mile or so away. We're really glad to have you coming to work with us. Rumor has it you're...." Her voice trailed off and her eyes widened. "Oh. I didn't realize you had a twin. Or, well, I knew you had a brother, just..." 

"Hi!" Grant said, fumbling a handful of Aero bars into the cart. Where could he have found those? "Rodney, I found them!" 

"Are you serious? Where are they keeping them, in the imports?" Rodney leaned to look, and oh, god, mint. He was going to have to hide them from both of them now. "No, uh, Grant's my twin. Grant, Doctor Carter, Doctor Carter, my brother Grant. Rumor has it that I'm what?" 

"Mint! Mint!" Grant pointed at them happily. "Oh. Turnovers." And then he was looking through them for the apple. 

"Um. That you're very good at what you do," Carter said, watching them with curiosity. "Ah..." 

It made Rodney shift, trying to catch Carter's eyes. "I am. That's why your 'group' hired me on. I'm looking forwards to working with you." He pulled up his bravado, trying not to bristle too badly at her. 

She nodded, and he could practically see the decision that discretion was the better part of valor, or at least that leaving before she stuck her foot in her mouth was a good idea. "Well. It was nice to meet both of you. I'm sure we'll be seeing more of one another." 

"I'm sure we will. And you'll probably see Grant around -- he's starting with the DOIM this week. Nice meeting you." That was the height of awkward, or the depths of embarrassing, but Grant didn't seem to care. He was too happy digging through the turnovers. 

Carter waved goodbye, and wandered off, and Rodney was glad to see her go. He hoped she didn't smile like that often. He was pretty sure that he wouldn't be able to bear it. It was eerie, and it made him want to go to work with Grant instead of into the depths of the SGC. 

Except. Stargate. Real, hands on, working with the Stargate. He might have to overcome his fears. He turned away, and sidled up to Grant. "So, turnovers?" 

"Turnovers," Grant agreed, and they shared a smile, one that was just between the two of them. That was how things were, how things had always been. 

How they'd always be. 

* * *

> Mer was home. 
> 
> That was the only, only good thing. Only good thing, or maybe just the best thing, because there were other good things. There were erasable markers and a board that they could write on. There was music, music all the time, soft and classical and tinkling that made Grant's fingers itch. Mer had learned to play when he went upstairs, and he'd shown Grant how to move his fingers. Maybe now Grant would get to learn, too, if he asked the nice lady who lived downstairs. 
> 
> There were a lot of good things. He had Kitty again, because he'd given her to Mer and Mer had given her back now because he needed it more, and Mer said that they could maybe get a real cat sometime. Whenever they were allowed to be not-there, even if there was a nice lady who lived downstairs, because sometimes she scared him. But she also sat with him outside in the garden, and she also made him chocolate cake. Grant really liked chocolate cake. 
> 
> Being here made him sad, though. Not sad for himself, because, food and sunshine and out, out, out, but sad for Mer. Mer should be at school, where he had been, but he wasn't. He was stuck with Grant, and he shouldn't be. 
> 
> He was being 'evaluated', they both were, and that meant things Grant didn't know what to do with. The day before, a man had made them both take tests, math and writing and there were bubble sheets to fill in, but Grant didn't know why. Mer had been red-faced and tight jawed and ranting and raving, and then Grant had hugged him and the man had frowned so much. So much. 
> 
> It had made Grant a little scared, because frowning was bad. Mommy frowned, and then bad things, uncomfortable things, happened, things he hated and Mer hated. At least Mer had gone away for a while, half their lives or more ago. He came to visit some, but only for a little while. Then he went away again and Grant was alone whenever Mommy came back. 
> 
> The idea that the frowning man would make Rodney go away again and not come back scared Grant beyond all imagining. 
> 
> "Grant?" He hadn't heard the door open, but he did look up, did see Mer standing there, looking fidgety and tired. "Hey." 
> 
> "Hey, Mer." Grant pulled Kitty up into his arms and scrambled up from the floor. It was easy now, mostly because the nice lady and her husband fed him regularly. That was a lot more than Mommy had done, towards the end. 
> 
> "What've you been doing?" Mer didn't demand, he just asked, and moved in close to Grant, and it was so good that he was home, that they were home together and that no one was touching him in ways he didn't like. No one was hurting him. It was just him, and Mer, and the nice people downstairs, and lots of good things to eat, and markers. That erased. 
> 
> "Maths." Grant pointed at the board. He was behind Mer now, a little. Mer had been learning Outside Things, and Grant had been traveling the same rutted paths of before. Well. Some things, he'd figured out on his own, but those were things Mer had learned from books and hadn't had to figure out on his own. So. Behind. 
> 
> He was getting better, though, because Mer had brought in all of his books, and that would take time, but he wanted. He wanted to go to school like Mer did and be just as smart and have degrees and mean something and do all the math he wanted to do all the time. 
> 
> Mer smiled, and leaned in to hug him. "I love you." 
> 
> Oh. That was wonderful. That made him feel warm and gooey somewhere in his chest. "I, I, I love you, too. Lots. And lots. And I love you. And you're here. And I'm hungry, Mer." Always hungry, but not as much as he had been. Grant was never eating tuna again, ever. 
> 
> Never ever. "Okay. Do you want to go downstairs, make a sandwich? Ask Miss Vicky for something?" Mer waffled between anger at the woman and liking her, and mostly he was angry at the people who came to see them instead. He wanted to be at college and he wanted Grant to live with him, and Mer had it all planned out in his head, he'd said, and none of it had gone that way. 
> 
> That was okay, because Grant had dreamed of running away to live in the picture window of a candy store and that had never worked out either. 
> 
> "Okay." Okay, because Miss Vicky made the best sandwiches. There was never mayonnaise because that was scary and came with lemon and Mer had nearly died the one time he ate it. That was when he went away, and stayed upstairs with Mommy and the other people. "Okay. Can we have the cheese ones? And, and, with the turkey?" 
> 
> Grant hated mayonnaise. "Yeah." Mer turned his head, pressed his face close against Grant, and squeezed him again before he let go and pulled away. "Whatever you want, Grant." It was a good thing that Grant didn't want much because Mer, Mer would give it all to him. "I think I smelled cookies, earlier." 
> 
> He gasped noisily, because cookies! Miss Vicky couldn't eat flour, but she made cookies with other stuff, oats and nuts and, and, and good things. Chocolate chips and dried cherries and Grant loved them. He thought he might even like Miss Vicky, even though he was uncertain about the whole living in her house thing. "Oh! Let's, I want...." 
> 
> Mer pulled at him, smiling as he opened the door. "She said something about a bake sale or, so maybe we could uh. Help her." Mer was trying to do anything, everything he could to stay distracted, to stay busy, and Grant could understand that. Mer had always been restless, drawing on their walls, making things, moving moving moving. It had been terrible to watch him suffer, to see him so desperate to be somewhere he wouldn't feel locked in and unable to breathe. Grant, at least, had developed a fondness for the tight space, even going so far as to believe that Mommy wouldn't find him if only he could hide deeply enough in the one vent that spilled air into the room. Of course, it was much smaller than Grant, but hope was eternal. 
> 
> He offered Mer his hand, giving him the crooked smile that Mer always gave back to him, and said, "Okay." 
> 
> The stairs were covered in soft carpet, and Mer walked with his feet on the edge of the steps as he kept one hand on the handrail and one hand on Grant's hand. "I'm going to restart school in the summer," Mer murmured. "And until then, Miss Vicky wants me to help you. So we're going to work together on this." 
> 
> "Okay." Because yes, it was just that easy. Why should it be any more difficult? Mer only did things that were good for Grant, that would help him. He was the only trustworthy person in Grant's life, and had always been. Miss Vicky was nice, but she wasn't Mer. "What, what, that is, I mean. What are we going to work on?" 
> 
> "You. Getting you used to everything you should've had before. Going out, trying new things, just..." Everything Mer did, and Grant wanted that. He really did. He wanted to be brave enough to do those things, wanted to be like his brother, but he wasn't. Mommy had said so often enough, usually hissing it at him when she was touching him, about how he was only good for this. Not anything like Mer at all. 
> 
> Grant wanted to be, though, so he nodded, and followed Mer carefully down the stairs, counting them as he went. Two, three, five, seven, eleven, thirteen, seventeen, nineteen, twenty-three, twenty-nine, thirty-one, thirty-seven, forty-one.... 
> 
> They reached the bottom of the stairs, then, and everything smelled good, like sugar and oatmeal and chocolate. Grant loved chocolate. "Mmmmm." 
> 
> Their first week there, they'd tried different ice-creams. All sorts of them, just sampling, and Miss Vicky had smiled and just been happy that Grant and Mer had seemed happy. It was funny, even if Mer had been giving her mean looks the whole time. He didn't do that anymore, didn't give her dirty looks. Not since they'd started to do walks towards the park. "Ma'am? I think we're ready to be helpful." 
> 
> Miss Vicky was smiling. She was always smiling, and easy. Gentle, and nice, even if she wanted Grant to see people who were not her and Mer and Mister Alex. Grant really didn't want to see anybody else. Other people were scary, and they made Grant want to tuck his head under something to hide. He knew that wasn't really hiding, that he couldn't really do that, but he wanted to. Mostly. "Hi, there." 
> 
> "Hi," Grant said back, and tucked himself behind Mer just a little. 
> 
> Mer didn't mind that he did that, that he slipped behind him. "So, uh, do you need help with cookies?" Mer took a step forwards, and pulled Grant along with him. 
> 
> "I could use help," she agreed, peering at Grant for a minute. "I need someone to stir up the oats and chocolate and butter -- do you want to do it, Grant?" 
> 
> He peered up at her shyly and nodded. "Uh-huh." Yes, he wanted to do just that, because she was nice, and she had asked. Mer pushed at him a little, gently, and he took the big wooden spoon she handed him. 
> 
> "To get all of the chocolate bits in, it helps to stir from the bottom," Miss Vicky said, and so Grant did it that way. It made all of the chocolate bits scatter, right at first, falling off of the spoon, but eventually they worked their way in, when he poked his spoon at the top of it. 
> 
> He fell into a rhythm after a minute, and Mer was doing something, setting wax paper out on the long wooden table, getting two spoons, watching Grant. 
> 
> "You're doing very well, Grant," Miss Vicky praised, while he mixed and mixed. 
> 
> "Thank you." Miss Vicky always told them that when they helped her. Grant had wondered what that was all about, but Mer said it was because they needed to learn appropriate behaviors in response to others. 
> 
> Grant was pretty sure that Mer knew them already, but Mer said he wasn't sure, and since they'd pulled him out of classes -- well, he'd managed to talk a couple of professors into letting him take the final and call it done, Mer had said -- and weren't going to let him back for months and months, maybe Mer was wondering, too. Grant thought it was silly. 
> 
> Mer stuck a finger quickly into the mix and put what he grabbed into his mouth. "Oh, whole grain shouldn't taste so good." 
> 
> "They taste better when they've had time to set." 
> 
> A taste of the mix proved that it tasted at least as good as Mer thought it did. "Mmm. 's goo' li' 'is." Very good, and Grant thought they should just take spoons and eat it. Miss Vicky was pointing at the wax paper, though, and telling them how big to make the drops of dough. 
> 
> Mer nodded and smirked sideways at Grant and started to drop spoonfuls on the wax paper, taking tiny snacks of the mix in between every fourth or fifth. There was music, playing from the, the radio, the thing in the living room that made Mer smile when he peered through the components, quiet, classical. It made Grant think of squirrels. 
> 
> He liked squirrels. They were nice, and uncomplicated, and there were lots of them in Miss Vicky's garden. She said there were lots of them at the park, too. Grant wasn't sure if he wanted to go to the park -- it sounded like there would be lots of people there. Mer said it would be fun, though, with squirrels and other cool stuff, and so they were going to go one day. Miss Vicky said. 
> 
> One day was good enough for Grant, for now. After they were done with cookies, though, he was pretty sure he'd rather go back to his room. He didn't feel ready for anything that big. 
> 
> He was glad that Mer was okay with something that small, a room, for Grant. Mer had a room, too, but they weren't in there often. Just to get books, retrieve things that Mer had brought. He said he'd brought his whole dorm room in. 
> 
> It was nice, and quiet, and Mer was nudging against his shoulder, plucking up the edge of a cookie that looked more like a splatter on the wax paper, when the doorbell rang. The sound of it made Grant jump, made him want to hide, and he looked at Mer, and he knew Mer knew. 
> 
> Miss Vicky wiped her hands, leaving a different bowl on the countertop as she walked towards the kitchen door and towards the front of the house. "You boys stay here and I'll be right back." 
> 
> Once she was gone, Grant peeked at Mer unhappily. "What if it's a, a, stranger? I don't, that is, I want..." 
> 
> "We'll go upstairs. You don't have to do anything you don't want to." Which was good, because he'd done a lot of things that he hadn't wanted to do, ever, and thinking about it made him want to sit under the kitchen table. 
> 
> Grant put his spoon down, eyeballing the door that would lead them to the stairs. Miss Vicky had gone that way, and whoever was visiting would be there, too. They could stay here in the kitchen, or they could chance it. He wasn't sure which one he wanted to do. Neither, if he was honest about it. 
> 
> He wanted to stay right where he was, frozen, leaning against his brother, and Mer was close, but inching towards the door, probably to peek. "Oh. Social worker. Same as last time." 
> 
> "Still want to, to go. Upstairs." The social worker was nice, but sometimes, she asked questions. Grant didn't like questions. When they had come, when Mer had come, and the police had come, they had asked lots of questions then. He didn't like it when they did. 
> 
> He didn't want to think, didn't want to talk. Mer did talk, talked for both of them when they let him, but Grant hated hearing it, hated the way that Mer turned red on the bottom of his chin and down his neck and up his ears in splotches when he talked. "We can't hide from the social worker." But Mer was still frowning. 
> 
> "Can so." There were places. Under the bed, or in the closet in their room. His room, except not really, because it was their room. The social worker didn't like that, but she didn't know them. She didn't know him or Mer. She just came and asked the bad questions, and Grant could hide if he wanted. 
> 
> "No, I'm supposed to..." Mer glanced at him, and then back towards the door, and seemed to make a decision. "Here, let's just. Sit down and watch the cookies. The social worker has to see us. To make sure we're okay." 
> 
> "But Miss Vicky's nice. And Mister Alex. And." Grant waved his hands, and then began to wring them. "And we have cookies. And I don't like her." Well. That wasn't nice. He didn't really not like her. He just didn't like her questions. 
> 
> "Maybe she'll just say 'hi'," Mer suggested. "Maybe she'll just come in and go and see we're here, and we can get back to..." Existing. Mer waved a hand, waved words away through the air. There was a routine here. Grant could go to his room and do maths for another bit of time, and then he and Mer would come down to help Miss Vicky with dinner, and Mister Alex would come back, and they'd all watch TV, and read parts of the newspaper that Mister Alex picked up on the way home. Grant liked the cartoons. 
> 
> Mer liked the front page. He liked to see how stupid people could be. 
> 
> "She never, never, never just says hi. Not just hi, Mer." Grant didn't like the way his mouth couldn't stay still, the way his fingers had to fidget. It made him, made him feel bad, feel wrong, feel stupid, and his eyes were swimming, hot and wet. 
> 
> He heard more than he saw Mer exhale 'oh', a soft miserable sound, and then Mer was hugging him when the kitchen door swung open more than a peek. 
> 
> "Boys...?" Miss Vicky always sounded sad when the social worker came by. "Mrs. Stanson wants to talk with you..." 
> 
> He felt the hiccough when it burst out, and he wrapped his arms tightly around Mer. "I don't want," he whispered, because crying on Mer was okay. It was okay so long as it was quiet. So long as Mo.. so long as no one heard. 
> 
> "Grant?" Oh, no, no, no. He didn't want her to talk to him, not at all. 
> 
> "He doesn't want to talk to her," Mer told her, fingers already rubbing at his back. "He doesn't want to talk about it. Why does he have to talk about it? It was horrible, it, she knows what she needs to know." 
> 
> Mrs. Stanson stayed in the doorway. "I'm just checking to make sure both of you are happy here with Mr. and Mrs. Ormiston. That's all." 
> 
> That was never just all. There was always something, some question about how Grant felt or, or, or other things, and he didn't want to talk. He hid his face deeper in Mer's shoulder, head tucked against his neck. 
> 
> "We're happy. We were just making drop cookies." Mer's voice sounded unsteady, unhappy now, fingers running slowly up and down Grant's spine. "And I picked up more books at the library today." 
> 
> "M'th b'ks." The mumble against Mer came out all consonants, and Grant gave a full-fledged shudder. "Wanna go 'pstairs, Mer." 
> 
> "Okay." And she'd try to follow, but Miss Vicky didn't like that the social workers asked and said the things they did. They said things about the two of them, about him and Mer, and they didn't understand at all, and Mister Alex and Miss Vicky did. 
> 
> Mer started to move, shifting to walk them towards the door. "We're going to go back upstairs." 
> 
> "Of course, Rodney. Be careful. I'll check on you in a bit," Miss Vicky promised, and she called Mer Rodney because that was who Mer was, out in the world. Not Meredith, and that had been odd. Grant was accustomed to it now, and he scrubbed his face and shuffled his feet to follow Mer. 
> 
> Mer's arm slid over Grant's shoulder, comfortable and tight, and he slipped them between Miss Vicky and the social worker. Grant hoped there'd be cookies, after. Later. That they wouldn't all go away. 
> 
> He didn't really care, though. So long as Mrs. Stanson was gone, in the end, he could live without cookies. He could live without anything except Mer.

* * *

> Sometimes they were too close. Sometimes it grated on Rodney's nerves, just a little. Not often, but he could never have a normal relationship, a normal, a normal anything because they were so very starkly not-normal that it made his teeth ache to think about. It wasn't even that he was angry at Grant. He was angry at their mother, for doing that to them, for ruining their lives, for changing so drastically who they might've been. 
> 
> The thing of it was that she wrote to them. He didn't know where she got their address -- their stepfather had divorced her years and years ago. He hadn't done that bizarre stand by one's woman trick that some people had done, according to social workers and their foster parents back in the day. He'd started filing paperwork as soon as she'd been arrested, because their mother's pleas of innocence and that he just didn't understand had fallen on deaf ears. He hadn't believed that they'd needed to be pent up, that there was something embarrassingly wrong with Grant, that Rodney had seduced her, that her husband had started it all, and that was why she'd killed him. Rodney hadn't really started to believe that himself until years later, hadn't believed that he hadn't done something to flip the switch in his mother's head. The only thing he'd been sure of was that their father had been good, a nice man, and hadn't ever hurt him or Grant. 
> 
> The problem was that they were both twenty-two, and they both wanted things that Grant still wasn't really ready for wanting, and Rodney did want, except he lived with his identical twin brother and, okay, he was still a fuck-up with relationships. Women scared the hell out of him -- fingernails and vaginas, and wet slippery folds and breasts hanging down in his face led him down the path to an anxiety attack more than turned him on. Apparently plenty of people managed to maintain a love for the gender that had abused them, but Rodney figured that maybe he'd always not-liked women that way, and everything that had happened had just made it more pronounced. Grant loved women. He liked blondes, with curly wild hair and he liked cuteness, which wasn't all that surprising. 
> 
> What Rodney figured he needed to do was find another severely hampered woman, as close to his brother in personality type as possible, and hook them up. Because Grant also liked sleeping with Rodney, and it was going to drive him right up a wall. 
> 
> He couldn't even jerk off with any real regularity. Just in the shower, because he and Grant had shared enough of their sexual lives that neither one ever wanted to share any more. As it was, the thought of having sex with anyone in the room made Rodney want to vomit, memories welling thick and acrid on the back of his tongue. 
> 
> Grant wasn't doing so well, anyway. They kept giving different diagnoses, this doctor calling it manic depression, that doctor swearing it was a mild form of schizophrenia. Half of the medicines seemed to make it worse and the other half made Grant stare sleepily at the wall. Then, when they had Grant practically comatose, they wanted to start in on Rodney and blather about anger management and ask him questions Rodney refused to answer. 
> 
> He just didn't know what to do. There was school as more of a constant in their lives, but he was frustrated and school was easier to immerse himself into than the other, distracting side issues. 
> 
> It didn't keep him from wanting to do something normal. Date, or have sex, or at least have a relationship with someone besides his brother, his right hand, or a textbook. If he went out, Grant went with him, because he needed to do that. He needed to go out, even though he didn't want to, even though Grant would be perfectly happy to hole up with computer textbooks and the work he was doing for his Ph.D. 
> 
> The worst part was that even going out had gotten to be impossible. They were less than two months away from their twenty-third birthday, and _Rain Man_ had started showing in theaters just before Christmas. 
> 
> Rodney could at least fake it. He could fake being normal, he could pretend that things were okay, he could be an asshole and nobody cared to notice if he was having a bad day, twitchy and on edge. Grant didn't have that ability, though. He'd spent nine years more than Rodney had buried in the tiny ten by twelve room hidden away in the basement, three feet from their father's rotting body. 
> 
> While Rodney had visited when he'd been allowed, had done what he could, it had been different. Their situations, they were different, and he couldn't even go to the fucking movies with Grant. So what was he supposed to do? Rattle around in their tiny, cramped world, feeling anxious while Grant thrived in the peace and the quiet and the opportunity to self isolate? 
> 
> "Mer." 
> 
> "What?" He didn't mean to be short or snappish. He just... he couldn't help it, and Grant looked so hurt that it made him feel even more snappish. "What?" 
> 
> Grant ducked his chin and skittered back, hovering in the doorway for a moment. He shook his head, and disappeared into the small dark hall that lead to the kitchen. 
> 
> Great. 
> 
> Jesus. Jesus, fucking... 
> 
> He was twenty two. They had an apartment, a nice, small place that was, okay, it was theirs, and he had TA and scholarship support and whatever their stepfather felt like doing out of guilt at that time, but he was going to be taking care of Grant for the rest of their lives, and it felt too big, too overwhelming just then because he wanted things all on his own, too. And maybe he couldn't do it forever, and it wasn't fair. 
> 
> Rodney started towards the kitchen hallway. "Grant, wait." 
> 
> Wait, because he felt bad about it, but he couldn't wipe away the anger, either. Not even when he found Grant huddled in the small space between the refrigerator and the wall, rubbing his damp face against one bony wrist. 
> 
> Maybe they were right about the anger management thing. 
> 
> Maybe. 
> 
> "Grant..." He was going to have to fill that space with something. He wasn't sure, but he could store something there so Grant couldn't squish himself down. "Grant, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Here, let's get you out of there..." 
> 
> "I'm sorry," Grant whispered, shuddering. "I'm sorry, Rodney." Not Mer, and he was trying. He was, because Rodney hated to be called Mer in public, and he just... He didn't know what to do. 
> 
> Rodney got down on his knees, and reached an arm into the space to pull at Grant. "Don't be, I shouldn't snap at you, I should, it's just that this is hard sometimes, and it's not your fault." 
> 
> That was all it took to get an armful of squirming, sobbing brother, face wet and buried against Rodney's throat. He didn't have anywhere else to go. There was just Rodney, Rodney and Grant. The Ormistons had new kids now, kids who were kids, not messed up adults. Miss Vicky would be glad to help, but they were at MIT. It wasn't like she could just flick a magic wand and show up. 
> 
> "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Grant chanted, shuddering against him. "I'm sorry!" 
> 
> "Don't be sorry," Rodney murmured, hugging him tightly because he felt bad, horrible. He'd just snapped 'what', and Grant was so fragile. "Don't be sorry. You didn't do anything." 
> 
> Except he did. He was sick, and Rodney was sick, too, maybe, and they were just barely past being kids. He didn't know what to do, and Grant was getting worse. Maybe he was, too. 
> 
> Grant's fingers curled tightly on Rodney's arm, and he sniffed, the snotty sound crawling on Rodney's nerves. "I, I did," he said finally, voice rough and quiet. "I did. Or you wouldn't be angry, Mer." He let out a sigh that shook down to the core. "'m sorry. 'm sorry to be sick. 'm sorry it's so hard, Mer." 
> 
> "I'm sorry I'm not a better brother." He swiped his fingers through Grant's hair, trying to ignore the fact that Grant was still trying to tamp down tears, that he was close to crying, too, because he didn't know what to do and there was no one to turn to for help. "I'm just tired. I'm a tired, miserable bastard, and I'm sorry." 
> 
> Fuck, they had to be a miserable sight, huddled together next to a beat up refrigerator that had probably been old when they were born. Rodney wished he knew what to do. 
> 
> "Maybe..." Grant's voice was thready, barely there. "Maybe I, I, maybe I, should, that is, maybe I should do. What they wanted. When, you remember, the lady who came. And thought I should..." 
> 
> No. 
> 
> "No, no, no, no. You're, no, that's not even up for discussion, people don't go there and get better, and you shouldn't be locked up because of what happened to you, to us." Rodney pulled at his brother, pulling him up to try to see his face. "No. We'll find the right medication for you and I'm sorry I snapped. I'm sorry. I want everything to get better but I don't want you gone, either." 
> 
> He felt the huffs of breath get quicker, catch, the dampness of Grant's face rubbing against his jaw before Grant let himself be moved, let himself look at Rodney. "But it would be. Better. For you." Better for him, and Grant was obviously scared out of his mind, and the worst part, the worst part of all of it, was what Rodney felt in the pit of his belly. The desire just to let go, to let Grant make that call, made him want to vomit. 
> 
> "No, no, I can't let you do that. You don't want to do it, and I don't want you to do it, so why are we even talking about it, Grant? You're all that I have." Unless he wanted to visit their mother in prison, which wasn't happening. 
> 
> Ever. 
> 
> He watched Grant waffle between smiling and crumpling altogether for a minute, and then his brother sighed and went almost limp. "Okay," he murmured, and pressed himself into Rodney's chest again. They were bigger, now, gangly, all arms and legs and bony sharp joints, but it was the way things had always been. Grant leaning against him, and he felt sick thinking about it any other way. Maybe it was time to give up daydreams about being normal. Maybe... 
> 
> "Okay. So, what did you want before?" His voice was more normal, a lot more, except he felt drained where he'd been irked before. 
> 
> Grant mumbled into his chest, and then turned his head so Rodney could hear. "This." This. Meaning that, Rodney knew, which probably would have been as clear as mud to anybody not him or Miss Vicky. This. Wanting to stick himself in some place that would leave him in a room no bigger than the one they'd spent the five years in together, the one Grant had spent eight more in alone. 
> 
> Rodney shifted, untucking one leg from under his body so he could stretch them out. He could feel the cold of the tile through his jeans. "Do you maybe want some cocoa, too?" 
> 
> "Yeah." Yeah, because when didn't Grant want something chocolate? "Yeah. 'm sorry, Mer. Really sorry." 
> 
> "Don't be." He stroked at Grant's hair for a moment longer. "I mean it. Don't be sorry. I love you. You're half of me. I just... get frustrated. Don't you get frustrated?" 
> 
> He felt Grant's fingers curl around his elbow. "Yeah." For a second, he thought that was all he'd get. "I hate it when, when you don't flush. When you pee in the, after we've gone to bed. Middle of the night." 
> 
> It startled a laugh right out of him, while he started to shift so he could stand up and haul Grant up. "I'm trying not to wake you up." Rodney got his feet under him and pulled, and Grant came, too. 
> 
> "Wake me up," Grant said, and he smiled. He looked like shit -- red eyes, red nose, blotchy skin. Rodney probably looked at least that bad. "'m already awake. When you, you know. Get out of bed. And all." 
> 
> "I'll flush next time," Rodney promised, pulling him up carefully. "Promise. C'mon. We can make cheese toasties, too. Maybe there's a good movie on." Maybe there was a bad movie on. It didn't matter which. Rodney would even sit through _Temple of Doom_ again if it meant they could sit there together, quietly munching and pretending everything was okay. 
> 
> "Okay." 
> 
> As much as he wanted to be not-frustrated anymore, as much as he wanted normal, the fear of his brother not being there was worse. So much worse. 
> 
> Rodney leaned up on his toes to snag the box of cocoa mix, and went looking for the kettle.

* * *

If Rodney didn't start sleeping, he was going to have to stab himself in the eye to get rid of the headache building up behind the right one. As it was, he hoped that the first day of work would solve the insomnia problem. 

It wasn't how he'd wanted to show up to work on his first day, but tired and feeling a little strung out and nervous about Sam Carter was going to have to be it. 

He had to get through the pass office, first, and in-processing to a certain point just to get through the door, but once he had an ID, Samantha Carter was waiting for him. Probably to say hi, walk him in the right direction and drop him off. He hoped. 

He really hoped, because she made him nervous. He'd never gotten comfortable with women, even though Grant probably thought she was pretty adorable. It wouldn't matter, because women never liked Grant, not the way they should. He was a good guy, and now that he had the right meds, he was stable. It was just that he was so disturbingly innocent that it seemed to put most of them off. Rodney thought that was pretty stupid, but who was he to say anything? 

He wasn't anyone at all to say anything. It was just a shame that Rodney got hit on, when he really preferred men, and Grant didn't. "Doctor Carter, good to see you again." He threw up a fake smile, and quickly added, "Or do you prefer your military title?" 

She folded her hands and smiled back, ridiculously perky in ways that made the headache behind his eyes throb a little harder. "Well, most people call me Major Carter. Whatever you feel comfortable with is okay, Dr. McKay. Shall we?" 

He nodded and smiled tightly at her. "Please." Major Carter, Doctor Carter -- he wasn't comfortable with it, and decided that once he'd been there for a while she'd probably just be a last name or maybe her whole name, just to keep her distant. "I've been looking forward to this." 

"We've been looking forward to having you." Rodney didn't believe that much. Most of the people at Area 51 had called him a demanding bitch to work with, and he didn't think anyone at the SGC could possibly be under any false assumptions that he would be changing. "And the other Dr. McKay, as well. I'm told he's a genius with computer systems." 

Oh, she'd been digging, then. "He is," Rodney agreed, knowing full well that he'd only gotten the job because he could repair a real problem with real equipment while most people were still arguing the theoretics behind it. "I'm sure he's going to have a blast with the DOIM." 

They were following a line painted on the cement floor, heading towards an elevator bank where it came to an end. "I hope so. We have a huge need for competent IT personnel." Her mouth curved, pretty, red, painted, completely creepy. "And, of course, competent astrophysicists." 

Rodney pushed down the strained feeling, and focused on the painted line that would take him where he needed to go in the future, without the guided tour. "I appreciate you taking the time to show me where I'm supposed to be heading today." 

"Oh, it's no problem. I've honestly been looking forward to working with you, you know. The work you were doing on the Naquadah generators was very impressive." Carter pushed the button to call for the elevator and stepped into a relaxed stance, hands behind her back. 

Thank god, something he could talk about. "I was hoping I could continue some of that work, seeing as it could definitely have applications here, with this project. Mostly, there's a lot of energy lost or never created, and I've been working on making them more efficient than they already were." 

"That would be fantastic. I know it's a little hopeful, but you've managed to compact the generators so much that the idea of being able to carry one through the 'gate, or being able to send one through on a secondary dial-in to check up on a team that's stranded without a DHD." The elevator dinged and the doors opened, letting out a handful of airmen who all saluted as they walked by Carter. 

"No, no, that's what they need to be used for. Portable, relatively safe power source that can be weaponized in a quick fashion if need be." He knew the military well enough to know that if it was energy and a possible weapon, it was twice as well liked. 

She was nodding, though, and they were inside, the doors were closing, and for a minute, the whole world swam and crumpled and shrank around Rodney so that all he could do was close his eyes and try to breathe. When it mostly stopped, he realized she was speaking. "...of course, but you've just done such amazing work. The size of the first generator made it unlikely that we would be able to build others on a scale that would support that kind of usage, but this... wow. It's just remarkable." 

Oh, oh, hell. He was underground, and it sort of just settled on him in that moment, that he was more underground than he'd ever been in Area 51. "You sort of have to start big with a project like that -- it makes the initial development easier, and then you can scale it down as you learn the stresses. I'm still sort of iffy on the current configuration -- I know there are places that it can be scaled back even more, but I simply didn't have the processing power and time to dedicate to it at Area 51. Of course, uh, reading up on your reports, I realize that there's a lot of time here taken up by unexpected occurrences, but it's more new technology and gate-related activity, and less 'base on lock down because tourists decided to go hiking'." 

It had happened more than once, and there had been an incident involving somebody murdered and the body being buried close enough to the base that the FBI had started hovering at the edges of things. That had made some of the scientists jumpy, and had made Grant laugh, because seriously. They were working with alien technology. Shouldn't that have made them twitch more than the FBI? 

"It's one of the drawbacks of working here," Carter admitted, giving him that bubbly smile that probably had straight men clawing their way to her door. "But there are so many advantages that it's really worth it, what with all of the new technology that comes in." 

"It sounds like it's worth it." He had hope about their work, hope about really just pushing the limits of the technology they had access to. "I hope I can see the Stargate in action sometime, as more than just a model." 

The elevator was slowing, and the doors chimed and opened when it stopped. "Well, we're on the right floor. There's SG-15 due to come in within the next fifteen or twenty minutes, so why don't we go to the control room?" 

And he could see the systems, which would be good. "That sounds great, thanks. What're my... working limits, I suppose?" 

Carter was following the red line along the hall, as if it went somewhere special. Rodney was going to have to remember which of them went where because there was a green one upstairs, and down here, there were red and yellow, too. "Well, I think you'll be happiest continuing with the generator project. There's an opening to do some work in Siberia on those, but since you have your brother, I don't think that's a good idea." 

Since he had his brother. He'd ask what that was supposed to mean, but. Siberia. He'd just rather not ask. "No, I, uh, think I'd prefer to stay here where I can keep an eye on the house and all." Cats. Make sure that the cats didn't eat a whole bag of crunchies in one day and explode, make sure Grant didn't try to feed them cereal. He couldn't even think of what Grant would do if he wasn't there, but Siberia sounded hellish. 

"Oh! I didn't mean... well, you know, but in any case. If it's all right, I plan to have you share space with Bill Lee. He's been working on some of the more obscure pieces coming through the gate. I think you'll enjoy it." 

But in any case. "I did work on a number of pieces of alien tech that the NID had taken in," Rodney agreed, "So that should be interesting. The best part was always trying to get them working. It does figure that they'll only give the Taur'i the bits they want thrown out." 

Carter grinned. "Well, not exactly. Most of it doesn't work, no matter where it comes from. Still. Here we are," she said, and they stepped past the last group of passing soldiers and into an area bustling with people, hot with running equipment. "Welcome to the control room, Dr. McKay." 

Rodney exhaled. It was crowded, sure, but there were plenty of other people in there and it gave him a sense of relief. "And the computer system that mimics a DHD." It was hard for him not to sound impressed, because he was looking past the controls to the gate that he could see through wide clear windows. 

"Yep. This is it." She sounded inordinately proud of it, or she would if Rodney didn't know she'd built most of the code from scratch. "And SG-15 should be dialing in anytime." 

Code built from scratch took time, but still. Someone needed to rework it, make tweaks, because it wasn't as if it couldn't be improved. He just didn't want to suggest that at his first day at work. "It's impressive." 

"Just wait." 

Wait, and Rodney heard someone announce, "Incoming wormhole!" somewhere to the left. He glanced through the glass and saw it, saw the wormhole burst open in a wash of light that looked like a burst of water, then retracted into a shimmering pool of deep blue. 

Sometimes Rodney wished he were better with words than he actually was, because the gate was beautiful. That was an event horizon, right there, held in suspension in a ring of pure naquadah and advanced engineering that required maths that didn't even exist for the Tau'ri yet. 

It and everything it represented was beautiful. 

"Isn't it amazing?" she said, and then an energy bolt came through the open wormhole and the concrete to the left of the viewing screen exploded outward in shards and a shield that looked to be a foot thick was coming down. 

"Holy shit," Rodney murmured, leaning back, hearing the shouts of, "Close the iris!" through the intercom between floor levels. 

That was really amazing. He'd seen it in his head, of course, seen it in videos hundreds of times while they were working on the math of the wormhole, the understanding of what it did. Seeing it now, even with the chaos reigning, the trinium iris closing, the shield coming up, med teams and soldiers scrambling in the gate room itself. There was a guy there, cussing every breath, other team members gathered around him. 

"I'll, uh..." Carter was watching the gate room just as avidly as Rodney, although he suspected her reasons were different. "I'll show you to your lab, if that's okay." They probably needed to get out of the way. 

They probably needed to get out of the way, but Rodney could see nothing but panic and equations in his head, and that was stunningly amazing. A single direction tunnel that let in things both good and bad, friend and foe. They were moving, but he wasn't really scared by it. "Yeah, uh..." 

Wow. 

It was the most beautiful thing in the world, math and science as a reality. Even knowing that it could be dangerous didn't detract from the beauty; it only intensified the attraction to it. The urge to turn around and go back to it was overwhelming, but Carter was following the yellow line to somewhere else, and Rodney was obligated to go after her. 

Obligated, but he didn't want to. "That was... amazing. Does that happen often, that enemy attacks travel through with the gate team?" 

"Oh... about every third day or so." Carter glanced back at him. "Statistically, anyway. Some days it happens more often than anybody's prepared to deal with." 

"How many missions run roughly in a day?" He took an extra step, caught up to walk directly with her towards what he hoped would be the lab. 

"Uh... you know, I'd really have to check the statistics on that one, to be honest. The lab you'll be sharing with Dr. Lee is this way." 

So, statistically she knew that they were attacked every third day or so, but she didn't have the base number that one would work that number into? There was no way he was going to trust any number she was spouting if that was the case. "All right." 

They stopped at the third door down, and she poked her head inside. "Bill? I've got... Oh, I see they brought you the device from P3X-974." 

"Oh, hello, Major Carter." It was a distracted sort of mumble, and that was how Rodney preferred his coworkers. Quiet, mumbling, hunched over a worktable. Seemed like there could be worse people with whom to share a lab. 

Carter stepped inside, gesturing Rodney in after her. "I'd like to introduce you to Dr. Rodney McKay, the astrophysicist from Area 51 who was working on the naquadah generators...?" 

"Pleasure to meet you," Rodney smiled tightly, offering his hand to 'Bill'. "I've been looking forward to starting here." 

"Doctor.. Oooh, yes, yes, yes, I remember you, you were at that conference, right? The one with the guy who was comparing... Wait, that was you, with the really cool comparisons between wheat futures and the conflicts in Eastern Asia. Yeah, that was you, right?" Bill shook his hand fervently. "Loved that modeling program, I've been wanting to give that a shot around here, see if we could.... what?" he asked, glancing at Carter. 

She coughed quietly. "Ah, that isn't... this.... Doctor McKay." 

The guy blinked. "Huh." 

"Actually, we can, but that program is my brother's pet project. Unfortunately, he's working upstairs. I'm the one who presented on the 'concrete' mathematical realization of the holographic principle as it was realized in the second superstring revolution, and the flaws in that 'realization'." Rodney lifted an eyebrow at Bill, but let his hand be shaken. 

He was nodding. "I think I remember that. Both of them were just fascinating presentations, I can't believe nobody's decided to put the wheat futures thing to use...." 

Rodney could, and it made him swell a little with pride that hey, that was Grant's. That people other than he and Grant recognized the genius inherent in it should make both of them proud. "I can talk to him about it for you, or I can give you his contact information if you seriously want to pursue using the program. He's always tweaking it, and it's gotten better since then." 

"That would be just excellent, I really think we ought to..." 

Carter cleared her throat, interrupting. "Ah, I'll leave you to get settled in, if that's all right, Doctor. Bill." 

Yes yes, she wanted to go. Rodney smiled, waved. "Thank you for the tour, Doctor Carter." 

He suspected that he'd be fine down there. 

* * *

> His Escort was a piece of crap. 
> 
> Of course it was; it wasn't like Rodney had been expecting to get a nice new car of any variety, and the fact that Ernest had been kind enough to get him the seven year old junker was something Rodney was grateful for. It gave him the option of going home, of making his way past the border and into Canada to steal his brother and sneak him back to MIT. 
> 
> That was something he hadn't had two days ago, with no license. 
> 
> He didn't think that Ernest expected Rodney to use the car to turn his life upside down, and Rodney was sorry in advance for any repercussions that befell him or Jeannie, but someone had to look out for Grant and himself because they weren't. No one else ever did look out for them, so it was all on him. 
> 
> As Rodney drew up to the light, he reached down to the hand brake, keeping his foot on the gas. The brake pedal didn't work worth a damn, and if he took his foot off the gas pedal, the car sputtered to a stop. It was a delicate balancing act, just like every moment of his life for the last thirteen years. 
> 
> He was still convinced that Mommy Dearest had killed their father. Not just convinced. He could vaguely remember something, something so nebulous that he couldn't pin anything down, but that made him think it was true. 
> 
> It made him think that was why they'd never seen their father after that one night, why he'd thought it was strange that he'd just left. It wasn't their fault, though that had been the official story in the house. His fault, Grant's fault, for being bad, dirty boys, but... No. No, that wasn't true. 
> 
> Not true, and the light had changed and he was almost there. A right turn and then coasting down the street and he could get his brother and get home. He could take Grant away from there, keep him safe, get him somewhere better than that hellhole where he'd spent almost all of his life. 
> 
> Rodney made the turn and then cut the engine, turning off the lights so that he wouldn't be seen coasting up to the house. It was mostly downhill, and he'd park the car wherever it stopped. It was better to do that, he thought than to park too close and be recognized. Not that it was likely, but he was going to take that chance anyway. He ended up stopped about five houses up, which was good, because of the trees in the way between them, and all he had to do was move quietly. 
> 
> Move quietly and get his crowbar. 
> 
> He'd stored it in the back seat, along with a few other things he might need. A couple of blankets, water, food. Some over the counter medicines, because god only knows what they might need. Rodney hadn't seen Grant since summer, not since before he'd left for MIT. That had been eight months ago, and anything, absolutely anything, could have happened since then. 
> 
> At the best, Grant was still okay. At the worst, Grant was dead and no one but him was there to notice, and that hurt in ways he couldn't articulate. But everything else could wait in the backseat, while he picked up the crowbar and kept it close to his body, trying not to draw attention to himself. That shouldn't be hard; it was nearly two in the morning, and it wasn't like anybody was going to be peeking out of the windows to see him driving up and going towards the house. 
> 
> Carefully, he pushed open the gate on the white picket fence. Rodney was ridiculously grateful that his stepfather was obsessive about keeping it well-oiled and squeal-free. 
> 
> God knew the man had control over all of nothing else in the house, so the lawn was his domain. Then it was a matter of approaching the bay windows in the front room, to pry them open. Once he was there, he was in. He knew the code, unless she'd changed it. And if she'd changed the code, well, he'd. He'd do something. He'd figure it out. 
> 
> He'd pry it off the fucking wall and beat a hole in the sliding panel if he had to. He. He'd do anything. He'd do everything if it meant getting Grant out of there. Getting both of them out of there, for good. 
> 
> Rodney slipped behind the hedge and carefully reached up, pushing at the window, testing to see if it was latched. It was, but it was also one of those fancy windows that swung out, so there was some weakness in the frame right there. Rodney hated that he had to stand on his toes, get a foothold in the wall to see up high enough, to work on prying down the top of the window, which would swing harmlessly down and in and then he could unlatch the bottom part and crawl in more conventionally. 
> 
> At first, he didn't think he was going to manage it. When he rammed his knee into the wall and scraped the spigot there, it gave him an idea, though. Using one hand, he balanced himself on the window casing, and carefully placed his foot sideways on the spigot, giving himself an extra couple of feet in height and making it easier. 
> 
> That was all he'd really needed, and why he was being so careful about property damage was beyond him. He didn't actually care what his mother had to fix once he and Grant were gone. 
> 
> It took a while, but he finally got the window open at the top. He reached in, skinny arm scraping along the wood, and managed to twist the latch to free the bottom. Relief flooded him, and he got a little careless extricating himself, this time scraping skin until he bled. It didn't matter, though, because the window was open, and he could squirm his way in, quietly, quietly, making sure that he wasn't going to wake anybody in the house. 
> 
> Thank god they didn't keep pets. Pets might sniff out Grant downstairs, so his mother had always blamed it on Rodney's allergies. 
> 
> Like hell. Everyone knew how much Rodney loved cats, and he wasn't allergic to them at all. Rodney settled quietly on the living room floor, and started further into the house, moving as quietly as he could towards the cellar door. Once he was in there, well, it was a matter of getting the door open and getting to his brother. In and out. 
> 
> He really hoped she hadn't changed the code to the door. It was hidden by a panel, and it took both hands to work it. The punch code had to be placed in, and then the free hand was necessary to pull the latch that would slide the wall open, a tacky fake set of shelves that slid out to allow passage to the tiny fucking cell he had lived in with Grant until he was seven, that Grant had suffered alone in the nine years since then. 
> 
> The door to the cellar itself creaked, so once he'd snuck around the corner to the cubby near the kitchen where it was tucked, he was careful to open it slowly. It didn't muffle the creak, but it did take some of the sharpness out. Ernest and Jeannie both slept like the dead, and his mother was half-deaf from an explosion in her lab five years ago. None of them probably heard it, but he paused, heart pounding, and waited for just a few minutes before creeping down the stairs. 
> 
> He knew that the fifth step and the seventh were a creaky doom. Rodney stopped, and balanced precariously on the sixth step after stepping over the fifth, and then leaned, a hand on the handrail to step on the eighth. Just a few more steps to be in the cellar, and Grant was so close he could feel it. It was like a humming wire that had been stretched too thin, too far, and the closer he came, the more vitally necessary it was to get down the stairs, to make his way to that panel. 
> 
> Once he got past the squeaky steps, he hurried down, careful to be as quiet as possible. There were boxes at the foot of the stairs, and he nearly tripped over the first one. After that, though, Rodney made his way through the gauntlet and to the place where he had to pry back the panel. It took him a minute, and he thought he heard someone up in the kitchen, so he paused, heart beating in his ears. Nothing further sounded, so he went to work, pushing in the code and getting his hand in deep enough to pull the latch. 
> 
> It was hell, and if he still hadn't been scrawny he would've taken skin off of the back of his hand to try to get the door open. Same code, it was the same damn code; he could feel it when the latch caught on his fingertips and he could pull it towards him so he could pull back the stupid door. 
> 
> "This is the police! Come out of there with your hands up!" 
> 
> Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, the police? What the hell were the police doing in the kitchen, coming down the stairs, in fact? Rodney could feel the blood draining from his face. 
> 
> He could feel his stomach fall and he could feel his legs lock up, and he pulled the door open the rest of the way just because he could and oh, god, if they shot him he was in hell. "I'm just trying to get out of here, officers!" 
> 
> "Hands up! Hands up!" 
> 
> "...Mer?" 
> 
> Oh, God, the door was all the way open, and the stench was unreal, lingering and remembered, and he could see a tall skinny guy coming down behind the cops gag because he was watching them when he ought to be looking for Grant. 
> 
> He put his hands in the air, and squinted at the too bright flashlight light. "Don't shoot. Please, you have no idea what I went through to get here, she's kept my brother locked up, we have to get out of here..." Now now now, and he could smell it, memory sense rising up in a way it hadn't since he'd been at MIT because that musty unclean smell was just like he remembered it, sitting there with books trying to help Grant, and the abuse, because it was a tradeoff, time with Grant for, for... 
> 
> "Please, we have to go." 
> 
> "Mer?" That was Grant. It was Grant, and even if some guy shot him, it was worth it. It was worth it, because they had to see, had to let them go, had to let them out, and there was Grant. There was his brother; all dilated blue eyes in the light Rodney fumbled on, tucked into a corner, and God. Oh, God. Had she stopped feeding him? "Mer. Mer!" As if that was all he could think to say. 
> 
> "Oh, Jesus," Rodney heard, and then the cops were tugging at him, hands on him, too close, too much. 
> 
> "Grant, no, you have to let me go, he's my brother," Rodney snapped, twisting, pulling out of their hands and he was agile, even if they were stronger and he wanted to be in there just to get Grant out, because Grant was tucked into the corner and he wasn't standing up and he needed to stand up if they were going to get out of there. "Oh, god, Grant, we're going, we're, it's okay, I'm here." 
> 
> "You came." Stunned, soft-voiced, so soft. "She, she said, she said, not, no more. She said. She said." 
> 
> The whole world was an echo, crazy in Rodney's ears, all mixed up with the pounding of blood, because he'd always come. He'd always come back. 
> 
> "She said no. She said gone. She said...." 
> 
> "No, no, no, I'm at MIT, I, no, I didn't want to leave you, I came back for you, Grant, I..." He pulled at him, got in the corner with him and the smell didn't matter because it was Grant, and oh god. 
> 
> Oh. God.

* * *

> Grant loved the Humane Society. 
> 
> They'd talked about it, Mer -- Rodney -- and him. Rodney had a love of cats, and Grant pretty much liked anything cute and furry. They had both finished their doctoral studies, well, their first, because Mer was greedy and wanted more. Being finished meant that they had time, though, time to do things like snuggle with pets and feed them and all of the nice things associated with having a pet. 
> 
> A puppy would be nice, well, a dog, anyway, but Grant knew Rodney liked cats better, so. That meant they'd take home a cat, even though Rodney said he could pick out whatever he wanted. 
> 
> Grant didn't mind. He liked cats, too, and he liked it when Rodney was happy, so. He liked the idea that he'd always have company when he was home and that he could be a little responsible. Cats meant litter and food and playtime and he could pace that out and use that without Rodney worrying about him walking a puppy and getting lost on the way home, which Rodney did. Rodney worried all the time, and cats were indoor creatures, and so, kind of, was Grant. 
> 
> It wasn't that he couldn't find himself, really. It was that they were somewhere new, and that always made things weird and strange. Grant was having a hard time, because sometimes the meds worked and sometimes they didn't. Sometimes, he just wanted to curl up in a dark hole and stay there, and sometimes he thought that if he died, it would be better. Easier for Rodney, anyway. And sometimes, all he could do was concentrate on one thing, all the time, until he had it mastered. Perfected. 
> 
> It had been a while since the last very bad time, when he had wanted Rodney to send him away. Mer loved him, though, and he wouldn't, even though Grant knew he had to have wanted to do that. Instead, they'd pulled together, and it was better now. Better enough that kitties were on the list, and there were so many! 
> 
> So many, black and white and tabby and calico, and Grant wasn't paying any attention to the girl who was telling them about the cats. He was paying attention to the cats themselves, because that felt like the right thing to do. 
> 
> After all, the girl wasn't going to go home with him, one of the kitties were. He looked in all of the cages, while Mer half-paid attention to the woman, peering at the cages, too. There were too many kitties, and he wanted the perfect one that clicked with him. There were kittens, only kittens were tiny and got stuck behind things, Rodney said, and he wanted to bring home bigger, maybe a little older cats. They didn't go so quickly from the Humane Society, and Grant didn't want to think about what happened to ones that didn't. 
> 
> He liked the orange one. It was fluffy, all orange fur and lashing tail. Grant thought about reaching out to touch, but got a hiss as soon as he moved closer, and that decided the question of fluffy orange cat. 
> 
> Not the one. 
> 
> He liked touching things, and Mer said that was okay, that was better than okay, and he wanted a cat he could touch. The next one was less than interested in his fingers slipped through the cage, and Grant didn't want a cat that was aloof like that. Then there were more kittens, kittens sleeping in litter and kittens tumbling over each other. 
> 
> Cute was well and good, but Grant was looking for something wordlessly specific, and he was almost ready to be disappointed. Almost, but there, up and almost last, there were two cats curled around one another and peeking at him with curiosity. Gray tabbies, and when he put his fingers in, one of them stretched and moved to poke its head against them. 
> 
> "Oh." He wasn't sure if that was his voice or Mer's voice, because his brother was up by him, peeking into the cage, and there were two sleepy faces peering back at them. 
> 
> "Oh! These two have been here for two weeks now -- their owner's new wife was allergic to them, and they're definitely looking for a forever home. Indoor only. He told me that they're both very personable, good with small children if you have any, and that they love to be petted. They're up to date on all of their shots and are just over a year old." 
> 
> Blah blah blah, yes, whatever, humane society person, Grant didn't say. Instead, he poked at the catch to the cage and it came open so that he could hold an armful of cat. The cat was pretty easygoing about it, all things considered, and that was a huge purr. Two cats, even. One for each of them, and Grant looked at Mer hopefully. "I like them." 
> 
> Rodney reached out to rub two fingers gently over the forehead of the cat Grant was holding, even as the second cat stuck his, maybe her, head out of the cage to peer down at the floor and then at the other cat, so Rodney reached his hand up to that cat, instead, and scritched under its chin. "Oh, their fur's so soft. That's..." 
> 
> "They're both neutered and spayed. Well, one's spayed and one's neutered, one's a boy and the other's a girl. They were litter mates." 
> 
> It made Rodney look thoughtful as the cat hammed it up, bumping Mer's fingers. "Okay. It's thirty per cat, right, and can we uh, put a hold on them, while I fill the paperwork out?" 
> 
> Grant couldn't help grinning at that. "Or maybe we can just, just hold them. While the paperwork's filled out. Can we go, is there a pet shop near here? With food and, and all the stuff?" Grant didn't know what kitties needed but food and water had to be pretty high priority. 
> 
> He knew too much about being without one or both of those. 
> 
> He knew it and he didn't think about it, but it was there, and he didn't ever want to do that again or have kitties do that, either. "Oh, uh. If you get back onto the main road and just take a left, there's a pet supply store with big signs. Here, we can put them in travel boxes and I'll get the things their owner wanted them to have with them." Mer leaned up and pulled the second one out of the cage, and then carefully closed the cage. 
> 
> "Oh. you're a sweet cat, aren't you?" 
> 
> Very sweet, and Grant felt like a five year old when he blurted, "They go together like peanut butter and jelly." But they did, sweet and a matched set. 
> 
> It got a blurt of a laugh from Mer as he scratched under a nicely purring chin. "Yeah, that sounds really good. We'll have to figure out which one's which." 
> 
> The Humane Society girl was eyeing them, smiling, too, and Mer turned to follow her towards the office. 
> 
> This, Grant thought, was the best day ever. He was happy. Mer was happy. And they had kitties. Kitties that he thought might just end up named Peanut Butter and Jelly. 
> 
> There were worse things.

* * *

> There were worse things. Rodney knew there had to be, it was just that he couldn't actually come up with them at the moment, not with Grant, all skin and bones, burrowing in against him, stammering incoherently. 
> 
> The police were talking to each other, and as long as no one was threatening to shoot him in the head, Rodney didn't really care what was going on. Someone was talking about evidence and someone else was talking about the homeowners, and Rodney wanted to strangle them all, because there was one policeman and the guy lingering behind him looking sick. 
> 
> "Sir? There's an EMT on the way, and we need to take you into custody to get a statement..." 
> 
> "I'm not leaving him." 
> 
> He'd done enough of that, even if he hadn't had a choice. Rodney hadn't had a choice; he'd needed to go away, to get time, to plan. To figure out a way to get Grant out, and what if they didn't let them go? What if they took them back upstairs, what if they believed their mother when she said the things about him she was bound to say, what if a thousand things that Rodney couldn't even clarify happened? 
> 
> "Hey. You don't have to leave him." That was the sick looking guy, all black hair and white face, funny green eyes blazing out of them. "He's your brother, right?" 
> 
> Rodney shifted his arms more tightly around Grant. "Yeah. He's my twin. I came home from college to get him out, and we could've already been out of here by now, but you two showed up and now she's going to have time to lie and make things up, which is insane because we didn't lock ourselves down here, and...." 
> 
> The guy was waving his hands, and the one talking about custody was backing off, probably because Rodney was actually talking to this one. "Of course you didn't lock yourselves down here. But you were out, right? And you knew how to open the door." 
> 
> "Which is how I managed to get back in here." Rodney petted at Grant's shoulder, and Grant was crying, and he wanted to get Grant standing up because the urge to get up and go, burst past all of those policemen, was too strong. "I, I used to live here, too. Down here, stuck down here, but when I got sick she took me upstairs and things didn't really get better, but when I went to college I -- I just passed my driver's exam a couple of days ago. So I could drive back and get Grant out." And it had to make no sense at all to them. 
> 
> "Okay." Except it wasn't, and Grant's fingers were iron bound around his arms, terrified of the people there, he knew. Terrified that Mother would be coming. "Okay. I'm John. I'm not really a cop; just patrolling, Auxiliary Police. So I'm not gonna hurt anybody here, okay?" 
> 
> "Okay. Grant's not -- Grant's not used to people. He's, we were three, I think, when this all, when this started. He's been here a long time." He rubbed at Grant's back, and oh, he'd missed his brother, he never wanted to be away from him again, not ever. 
> 
> "So your name's Grant," John the Auxiliary Police idiot said, and reached out a hand, offering it, not actually touching. "It's nice to meet you, Grant. Hey, there're paramedics coming upstairs, okay? You wanna come up and let somebody see about you, maybe give you a little medical care?" 
> 
> "I want to stay with him," Rodney insisted. "I didn't even break the window. I let myself into my own house, and if my mother wants to press charges, I'll, I'll..." He didn't know what he'd do. Kill her in her sleep, or start poisoning her coffee, and if Ernest was a casualty, he probably deserved it. He deserved it for never noticing, for not checking to see where money went or asking about the stench in the cellar or any of a dozen things. 
> 
> "You can stay with him." John nodded. "You can stay. But let's come out of here now, okay?" 
> 
> Since that had been his goal all along, Rodney couldn't really argue against it. He shifted carefully when he started to pull Grant up. "C'mon, Grant. I can stay with you. Just stick close, and I promise no one is going to hurt you ever again." 
> 
> Grant looked up, all wet blue eyes and parted mouth, and he looked like a kid, a sick kid who wanted desperately to believe in somebody. To believe it would be okay, and Rodney wanted to gag because what the fuck. How could Mother have ever, ever, either of them, ever.... "Promise?" 
> 
> "He promises," the guy said. "I promise, too. Okay?" 
> 
> "I promise," Rodney reiterated, hugging Grant as he got him standing, and it was no wonder his legs were weak. Rodney could carry him, though; get him up the stairs, probably. "It's all going to be okay now." 
> 
> "Ok-k-kay." It was stuttering, but Grant believed. Grant believed because he didn't have anything else, Rodney knew, nothing else to believe in, and they'd both promised. They'd promised, so long ago, and he was going to keep it. 
> 
> He was going to keep it all. 
> 
> It just surprised him when John, the officer-auxiliary, got to Grant's other side and tried to steady them going up the stairs. "There're paramedics waiting at the top for you guys." 
> 
> And okay. Okay. Paramedics. He'd said that already, Rodney thought. That was better than what he'd planned, right? That was helpful, that was something Grant obviously needed, and he could hear Mother somewhere yelling, and Jeannie, and Ernest. He could hear them, and he could feel the way Grant jerked, tried to pull back and stumble away, probably back down into that hellhole. 
> 
> "Hey. Don't worry, okay? Don't worry. You're gonna be okay. Those people, you don't worry about them. There are other guys up there, taking care of it. You don't have to worry about anything." 
> 
> "She can't hurt you." Rodney promised it, because he was going to keep that promise, no matter what. 
> 
> She couldn't hurt him, either, but she'd never hurt Grant again and he hoped that she spent the rest of her life in a room as small as theirs, and Rodney clung hard to Grant as they got up to the top of the cellar, and into a world of turned-on lights and officers cornering his mother and stepfather, and his stepfather's surprised, "Who's that? Rodney? Rodney, you broke into our -- oh, god." 
> 
> "Yes, oh, god, you stupid, stupid idiot! You never knew anything that went on in this house, and that's the only reason she didn't kill you like she did our father!" But there were men in blue approaching, and there was a white gurney, and the whole place was lit up. 
> 
> The whole world was lit up, and nobody was going to make them live in darkness again. 
> 
> Not anybody.

* * *

It had been a very good day. 

Grant had needed to sign lots of papers and promise to follow protocols and blah blah blah, but he'd eventually been given a cubicle with lots of computer bits and allowed to work to his heart's content. So, it had been good. He wished he got to see the things Rodney did, but it was okay that he didn't when he enjoyed what he was doing most of all. 

And he did. He set his toys up on a shelf over his desk, and his stash of chocolate to one side -- two bars, rationed out by Rodney, when he had money and knew where the vending machines were, but that candy wasn't as good as Aero bars -- and his lunch box, though he could eat in the cafeteria if he wanted. If. The toys weren't out of place, since the guy in the cube beside him had HTML books and little McDonald's toys. Grant thought his action figures looked quite nice. 

It was something to glance at while he got used to where areas were on the map he had on his desktop, and why none of the names for the areas actually described what they did. He knew that the battle lab would be simulating war games in two weeks, and that their machines were a mess, which was why he had two that needed to be cleaned, physically cleaned, reinstalled, and put back out and that was just for one day. 

He'd done what needed doing, of course, and that had been nicely time-consuming and mindless, so he'd been able to run math in the back of his head, think about the changes he wanted to make to some programs he was building at home. It was a lot like working at Area 51, really, except the people were different, and everything seemed to have a priority of Now or Fifteen Minutes Ago attached to it. 

The fifteen minutes ago was kind of funny, because if a report really needed to be done and in Fifteen Minutes Ago, it could've been done on someone else's computer, done or restarted or something, but looming didn't make Grant work faster. It had taken years of Rodney coaching him for him to manage to ask for space without stuttering at someone, but when he asked, people stepped back. 

His Doctor Bashir figure loomed about as much as Grant was willing to tolerate of anything. 

Still, the day had been interesting, and fun, and he hoped Rodney's day had been at least half as good as his. He was waiting in the lobby of his building, because there were more buildings than one, of course, and Rodney's building was deep underground, even though Grant wasn't supposed to know that. He was glad that it wasn't him, because just the thought of being that far under the surface of the Earth made Grant feel claustrophobic. Rodney knew where Grant's building was, though, so it was certain that he'd show up, eventually. 

Grant preferred to stay in one place and wait for Rodney to find him. Once they'd been there long enough, they could meet, find each other, find the cafeteria. Grant had been glad he'd found the bathroom, and he was pretty sure he knew where all of the bathrooms in the building were, but the battle lab was in a different sector and his pushcart for hauling machines back and forth had one wobbly leg. 

He'd have to do something about that, fix it somehow. It probably wouldn't take much, but that would drive him to distraction if he had to spend much time with it, and he got the very distinct feeling that he would be. Better to fix the problem to start than have a major difficulty with it later. 

He could start that in the morning, Grant decided, when he first got in. 

"Hey, Grant." Oh, that was a nice familiar voice, Rodney walking up to him, fussing with the strap of his shoulder bag. 

"I had to physically take apart two CPUs today to get the dust out. I'm not sure I've ever seen anything so dirty." Well, he probably had, but he didn't let his or Rodney's things get that way. "Battle lab sims. Nice hardware, but filthy. How, how, did you have a good day? Because I had a good day." And Rodney was here, which made everything even better. 

"It was interesting." Rodney managed a smile, while he reached to pat Grant's shoulder. "I'm looking forward to getting home, stretching out on the sofa, and having cats walk all over me." 

Mmm, yes. Cats walking over him was a fantastic idea, paws dense against his belly, then kitty-loaf sprawled against a hip or something. Grant was all about the joy of kitty-loaf on top of him. "That's a good idea. Pizza night?" Well. Maybe not pizza, but something else would be all right, too. 

Rodney looked thoughtful, and then decided, "Yeah, I think so. I'll make a salad." He had his keys out of his pocket, and he was already jangling them. "So, how're your coworkers?" 

"McDonald's toys and HTML guides. And one guy is sleeping with his assistant, but nobody talks about it." Grant always wondered what made people think no one noticed when they did these things. Well, he wondered, but then most people didn't notice, which probably meant they were right to think it, after all. "Cat food?" He thought they had plenty, but Peanut Butter was finicky. 

Sometimes, Peanut Butter didn't want to eat seafood supreme, and Grant couldn't blame him. It smelled gross. "We'll stop on the way home. Hey, how about that Greek pizza place down the road? We can call ahead and pick one up on the way back." All in one fell swoop, A to B to C, that was how Rodney's brain worked. He liked plans. Even when plans fell through, he had new plans. 

It was one of the many things Grant loved about his brother. Not that he'd ever not loved Rodney. Even when he thought Rodney was gone forever, he hadn't not loved Rodney. There was no conception of how to do that, how not to love his brother, even when things were bad. Even when they'd both been half crazy and mid-doctorate, he hadn't felt anything but love and fondness and sorrow that Rodney might not be able to love him as much. Rodney always had, though, and he made his plans, and they included Grant. They revolved around Grant more than was probably healthy, but any attempts he'd made to get Rodney to revolve around something or someone else had kind of been a disaster. 

"Okay. And the, the spanakopita, too?" They had the best spanakopita ever. 

The edge of Rodney's mouth pulled up. "Yeah, but tomorrow we're making something healthy. Tonight's for celebrating. I think this place is going to work out well for both of us." If they could meander through the parking lot to get to Rodney's car, that was. Grant had never seen so many people so happy to leave their place of work. 

Of course, they hadn't been long out of school when they'd gone to work out at Area 51. Like most of the people there, Grant and Rodney had loved their work, and most of the time no one actually managed to leave by five. They were some of the few people who left at any point resembling on time, and that was mostly because neither of them did well if life became too unstructured. 

They made their way to Rodney's Volvo, managing to avoid getting creamed by some of the larger trucks mostly by walking behind one another in a duck-file. 

The two of them together could've worked all hours, worked themselves out, but Rodney was firm that they needed time at home, time to themselves, time for a life that neither of them really had, but that they sort of did. Grant had his hobbies and Rodney had his hobbies, and Grant went on more dates than his brother ever did. Still. Rodney blamed their work's military nature, and his own attraction to men making the playing field small for him, but Rodney also had ignored the cute Barrista man in town at their last home, and ended up doing extreme things that got him into trouble. 

Grant had liked the man's goatee. 

It was a shame, the way Rodney felt about women in general. There was Mother to take into consideration, of course, and Grant did. He really did, because he stuck to blondes with blue eyes and plump, rounded curves instead of angular women with that funny not-blonde-not-brown-not-red color Mother had always had. It was better that way, and not so hard to pretend the other things weren't important. 

He just... preferred women, and okay, he hadn't married and settled down with a white picket fence, and moved away from Rodney, but he'd had a lot of fun and he'd had his heart broken and put back together. Rodney never got that close, period. He was too, too something. Grant wasn't sure, and it wasn't his place to be sure. 

It was his place to slide into the passenger seat and put his bookbag between his legs while Rodney slid into the driver's seat and made faces at the RPM gauge while he turned the ignition. Rodney wanted a new car, but they'd just bought the house, or he had, because Grant always paid half of things, but it was mostly in Rodney's name. That was just the way they'd always done things, ever since Grant could remember. 

"I have to fix the cart. For moving things." He made a face at Rodney and then laughed, a little self-consciously. "It, it, it's off-balance. A little. Wiggles." The little things were the ones that bothered him worst, and Rodney knew it. Grant was better with change than Rodney, but not so good at ignoring the little annoyances. 

Sometimes, Grant thought Rodney lived for the little annoyances. "Do you need anything from home to do it? Oh, did you remember to take your toolkit in?" They had tools at the office, but they sucked and Grant liked his own screwdrivers and needlenose pliers. 

The RPM must have hit the magic position where the car didn't stall-start, and Rodney flung it into reverse after he took the parking break off. At least, Grant thought, it was better than the Escort Rodney occasionally talked about. The brakes worked. 

"Brought it." It was in his backpack, snug and safe and fully stocked. "I, I think if I use washers? Maybe, if I take the wheel off, and, and that will work." Make it steady enough, while still giving it the extra height to solve the wiggle. 

"Let me know if we need to get a certain size of washer for you. Hey, since today's a celebrating sort of night. Do you want to stop and get dessert, too?" It wasn't just him who had a sweet tooth out of the two of them. 

Of course, he had eaten chocolate to the exclusion of actual food at one point, but he'd been kind of crazy then. They didn't talk about it, or even discuss the events that had transpired. Instead, Rodney rationed out the chocolate, and Grant let him. That was love, and that was okay. Better than girlfriends who let him have as much chocolate as he wanted. 

"Let's, at the, the place? The one we found last weekend? With the, the almond chocolate croissants?" 

"Yeah." Rodney probably had a map in his head, by the time he pulled out of the parking lot and started on the winding road out of the base. "Uh, later. We need to talk. There's some of the paperwork I filled out, because of the nature of the work here, uh..." 

Huh. "What kind?" Grant already knew that they wouldn't be trading places anymore. That was the reason he'd decided to allow his facial hair to grow wild, while Rodney stayed clean-shaven. It was kind of nice and scruffy, and he liked it. 

"Power of Attorney, a will, uh..." Rodney rattled it off like it didn't bother him, but Grant heard the twist in his voice, felt it in the pit of his belly, because.... Rodney. Rodney wasn't allowed to die and leave him alone. Not, not ever. Because Grant had thought that once, had thought Rodney was dead and gone, and it had been the most horrible thing that ever happened to him. 

Considering he'd been fifteen at the time, and... Yeah. That said a lot. 

Grant's voice scraped out of his throat. "M-maybe we should have stayed. At, at, in Nevada." 

"I'm just working on the generators, mostly, but... It's a precaution. Anyway, uh, it's all yours, Grant. And if anything did happen, you know you could trust Jeannie to help..." 

"No." No, no, no, and no. He, he, Jeannie was all right. She was married now, and Ernest was dead, and there was a baby on the way. He liked babies, because they were like kitties in a way. Grant even liked Kaleb and his weird tofurkey, but they weren't Mer. "Mer. No." 

"Nothing will probably ever happen to me, Grant," Rodney offered. "I mean it. It's just things I needed to designate in case." 

In case, and Rodney didn't qualify that. He didn't, and Grant wanted to say no again, no, and no, and no. Rodney was Mer, and Mer was everything, and if the people under the ground let Mer die, then Grant would probably die with him, or do something crazy like go home and shut the door and never come out again. "No, Mer." And it sounded pleading and scared, and it was. He was. 

"It's just in case something happens. I mean, what if I get hurt? I'd want you to know. I..." Rodney braked for a red light, and finally looked over at him. "I'm not going to die, Grant, it's just that the Stargate project, it puts into perspective how close we all are to biting it right now. The wrong thing steps through that gate, and this planet is gone." 

Grant didn't much feel like dessert, or pizza, or anything. Not thinking about Mer being gone. He hated it. "Okay." It wasn't. It never would be. Not really. 

He could tell that Rodney hated that, that he didn't want that response, but Rodney fell quiet and eventually turned the radio up, driving pointedly towards the pet store. "Grant..." 

"It's not okay. It's not, not going to be okay, Mer." Because it wasn't, and saying otherwise would be a lie. Grant didn't lie to Mer. Not ever. "If you die, I, I want to..." 

"I know. I know." And that was why Rodney never pursued much outside of Grant, and he wasn't going to think things he shouldn't. "Don't worry about that. I mean, you're in the same base I am." 

That was okay. That would be okay, because if Mer died, then Grant probably would, too, and okay. Okay. "Okay." 

"That's all it is," Rodney reiterated quietly, while he pulled into a parking space. "They're just worried about the, the big one. Self destructing the base. Things like that. Hey, do you think they'd like new toys?" 

Grant could live with that. If the base self-destructed, then Grant would self-destruct, too, and that meant everything would go to Jeannie and Madison. That was better. "The crinkly mice, with the catnip." 

Rodney laughed, turned the car off, and Grant could feel himself relaxing already. "Okay. Food for Peanut Butter, toys for both of them. I'm sorry I upset you..." 

"'s okay." Even if it wasn't. "'s okay, Mer. Rodney." Because it had to be. "Just. Lived without you. Before." He shook his head slowly. "I, I, I, I don't want to. Again." 

"I know. I don't want to live without you, either. I can't imagine it." Rodney didn't open his door yet, kept looking at Grant and that was a sign that he wanted to see something, wanted to finish it before they got out of the car. "I'm happy like this." 

That was how they were. Together. A set, like, like salt and pepper shakers, Grant and Mer, always, and it was something everyone had to accept. Everyone, even people they dated, and most of the time, they couldn't, and that was okay. Dating was transient. Mer and Grant, that was forever. "I don't want it, us, everything, to be any other way." 

That was it, and Grant grinned when he saw Rodney's half smile. "Yeah. So, we need to celebrate," Rodney reiterated, finally opening the car door, "and, get cat food." 

"Peanut Butter wants the chicken," Grant reminded him, opening his own door. 

And everything was okay then, mostly. The silent agreement not to discuss it was there between them, and so they wouldn't. 

It was as easy, and as difficult, as that. 

* * *

> Mommy was cooking. 
> 
> Mommy was cooking, and they were sitting on the carpet, and he had blocks to sort. They were blue and green and red and yellow and had pictures on the sides and letters and nummers, Mer said. Marion liked the nummers. They had better shapes than the letters, and Marion liked them best. 
> 
> Kitty had shown up in the box with the stuff Mommy was cooking. It had been dry and felt funny to touch on Kitty's fur. Marion had been rubbing the funny dry dust off of Kitty for a whole forever now, long time, and he and Mer were being good and quiet in the corner of their new room. 
> 
> It was dark, but there was a light in the corner and they couldn't reach the switch. Mer leaned forwards, patting Kitty's head. Tiny puffs of dust popped up, and it was frustrating Mer as much as it was Marion. But, they had a new room. No more sleeping in the living room, and all of their things were there. It was where they would stay, all the time, Mommy said. 
> 
> The smell of Mommy's cooking made Marion's nose wrinkle, but he didn't say anything. Mommy had slapped him hard when he'd made a noise of protest over Kitty's dust, and his face still stung. It was better to hold out one of the blocks to Mer, and to let him pick it up and roll it in his fingers. 
> 
> Mer smiled, and clutched it in his hands, carefully looking at the pictures on the side. There was a bunny on one side and a bee on another and a bear and a ball, and Mer stared at the pictures, twisting it and turning it and the letter and the nummer before he handed it back to Marion carefully. If he dropped it, Mommy would be angry. It was noise, and she said she hated them, that, noise. 
> 
> Marion was pretty sure Mommy really meant them, and not noise at all. 
> 
> It made him sad. It had always made him sad, for as long as he could remember, because Mommy didn't like them. Daddy did. Daddy loved them lots, and bought them Kitty, and the nummer letter blocks. Daddy fed them beans and weenies and macronichee, which Marion liked best. Mer liked apples smushes best, and that was okay. It meant they could share. 
> 
> Mer was tense and sad, sitting across from him, and their momma was pouring out her cooking all over the far side of the floor, and it smelled weird, dusty and hot and it made his nose itch and Mer wasn't looking over there, but he could see, he could see hands? He could see hands, and Mommy must be covering a doll in her cooking, which seemed funny to do. 
> 
> Carefully, Marion moved across the blocks, silent and steady, and sat next to Mer, and put his arms around him. Mer tried to shove him loose, but Marion clung tight, and Mer gave in, and hugged him back. Marion liked hugging. Hugging meant love, and love was good. He wanted to say so, but Mommy was there, and he wasn't stupid enough to make a sound again. No, Marion was smart, smart, smart, him and Mer, Daddy said. And he wouldn't make noise again. 
> 
> Mer shifted and leaned into Marion, shoulders shivering, noises all pushed down, and there'd be noise later, lots of it, Marion knew, because Mer knew things, and wanted to say things and couldn't with Mommy there. It was making Mer sad, whatever it was, and Marion hugged him. He loved Mer, and he loved Daddy and he loved Kitty and he loved the nummers on the blocks. And they could play with all their toys again soon. 
> 
> Whenever Mommy was done hiding the doll with her cooking.

* * *

> Rodney had no idea what had ever possessed him to try dating someone who was doctorate deep in a soft science like psychology, but so far, it had actually been pretty good. 
> 
> Charles was interesting, which was foremost. He was also intelligent, which was obviously a necessity, and he didn't mind Grant. Rodney had tried dating other people, but when they found out that he had a twin brother who lived with him, and picked up on the, on the Rodney didn't know what it was vibe, the fuckedupness of them, they hit the ground running. That hadn't stopped Grant from trying to introduce him to other people on campus or from other campuses that Grant had run into while he rambled the couple of blocks right around their apartment. 
> 
> Rodney was pretty sure Grant had met Charles on a bus, but he didn't care because Charles was the best one Grant had thrown at him yet, soft science or not. Charles, in fact, was currently doing things to Rodney's neck while his hands stroked over Rodney's nipples, things that made him pant with the unbelievable pleasure of it. 
> 
> He hadn't known anything could feel so good. 
> 
> It wasn't as if he hadn't had sex before, because he had, but his memories of it were tense, distant in ways he couldn't articulate, because he had this, lips against his neck and Charles's smooth head under his fingers, and a bare leg rubbing slowly against his own, a tease that almost tickled. "Jesus, Charles..." 
> 
> There was something delicious about the way he chuckled, warm against Rodney's throat. "Well. I wouldn't say I'd ascended quite that far yet, but I'd be glad to let you think about it later." 
> 
> Snide and snippy, and Rodney loved that. He loved that, and let his hand roam down Charles's back. "It probably won't require too much thought. You... hhn, really know what you're doing..." Just where to touch, every sensitive spot Rodney had that he knew about and some that he didn't, and there was a gentle bite to the cord of his neck that made Rodney stretch a leg out almost in reaction from the shiver it slammed through him. 
> 
> "Call it a... study of pleasure." Oh, yeah. It was definitely that, because nobody could just know this kind of thing -- where to touch, how to bite, easy and yet hard enough to make Rodney groan despite the promise he made to himself about not doing that. He felt stupid, making those noises, but Charles was doing things. He was kissing, and nipping, stroking Rodney's skin with his hands, gentle and easy even when he sucked a little too hard on a nipple. 
> 
> He'd never really thought sex could feel like that. It was no wonder Grant kept going out with that waitress. "Huh, are you expanding the study to a dissertation -- oh, right there, right there." Just beside the nipple felt the best, sensation that wasn't, phantom pleasure that made his dick jump, rub slick against his belly. "Oh God. Oh, God." 
> 
> "Well. All right." Charles's amusement drove him crazy, but he was enjoying this too much to complain. Much too much, and oh. Oh. Was he...? He was, mouth sliding down Rodney's breastbone, slipping towards his navel, and... and.. Oh God. 
> 
> He knew what a blowjob was, he'd had them, he'd had to perform them on his brother and for one really fucking tense moment Rodney thought that maybe it would feel the same, that it was, it was, he didn't know. He didn't know, because Charles kissed his stomach, smiling against skin, a thumb idling against Rodney's hip. 
> 
> "Okay?" Charles asked him, and nuzzled, rubbed his ridiculously smooth cheek against his belly. That right there. That was one of the reasons Rodney liked Charles, one of the reasons they'd come this far. 
> 
> "Yeah. Yeah. Little, uh, mental stumbling block there." He shifted; squirmed enough to get more of that soft skin on skin sensation, let his fingers trace the cords of Charles' neck. 
> 
> "Wanna talk about it?" God. No. Not if hell froze. "We can later. If you want." 
> 
> "Maybe." Rodney had fixed Charles's TV, but Rodney also knew that his head was more of a mess than a few blown capacitors. He couldn't help but smile when Charles seemed to assent, and kissed his stomach one more time before shifting again. 
> 
> Rodney gasped, a stuttering, hiccoughed sound that exploded inwards and then back outwards in a rush. Charles was... his mouth was soft, wet, hot, and he had the very tip of Rodney's penis captive. When he sucked inward a second later, Rodney didn't stop with breathing heavy -- he outright yelled, because Jesus, that was just fucking amazing. 
> 
> That was fucking amazing, lips on his dick, that suction, the feeling that he was being pulled up into Charles's mouth, that he couldn't do anything but push his hips up. Oh, fuck, fuck, that was amazing, all suction and heat, and then Charles was pulling back, sliding his tongue around the head of Rodney's dick, and Rodney was pretty sure that he was going to go blind. Nothing could feel that good and not have severely detrimental effects. 
> 
> Charles hummed, and it sounded like he enjoyed it, like it was good, like he liked it. His thumbs were stroking Rodney's hipbones, slow and steady, and then he breathed Rodney in, and did that thing with his tongue again, and Rodney shuddered. He lasted another suck, maybe two, and shot off like a rocket, balls tight, that shiver down his spine too much to resist. Rodney hoped that Charles took it as a compliment, fingers shakingly trying to clutch at Charles's shoulders. "Oh, oh, god." 
> 
> Oh, God, he was pretty sure a man could die happy if he died at just that moment, and Charles was licking at his lips and then coming up and over Rodney to kiss him, to push his own cock against Rodney's thigh. "Mmmm. Good." 
> 
> Rodney exhaled unsteadily, and he kissed Charles back, wallowing in the lazy comfort that settled over him. "That was amazing. You..." Wow. He didn't want to say wow, but he did, all at the same time. Because. Wow. 
> 
> "Good to know you enjoyed it," Charles murmured, and he was kissing Rodney, brushing his lips against the spot behind his ear, and he was still hard. He probably ought to offer to do something about that. 
> 
> He just wasn't sure what Charles might enjoy best. "Oh, I did. I really enjoyed that. That was, I've never felt anything like that, which I know sounds clichŽ, but. True." 
> 
> "Mhm." Agreement, but it sounded distracted. He couldn't blame Charles for that. "Rodney...." 
> 
> He let his fingers linger against Charles side, tracing over the suggestion of rubs. "Mmh?" 
> 
> The movement of Charles's hips said without words exactly what he wanted. "Could you maybe...?" 
> 
> He laughed a little, shifting, pushing Charles gently to roll over. "Gladly." He just wasn't going to be as good at it as Charles was, but he could take his time, close his eyes and savor everything about Charles, breathing in his smell, tasting the skin of his jaw and then down. 
> 
> "Oh, that's nice," Charles murmured, and sprawled out in Rodney's sheets, relaxed and easy, hand moving to cup the back of his neck. "That's... just like that," he encouraged, and Rodney was glad of that. 
> 
> He wanted the encouragement, the suggestions on what was good. But until he was sure, he tried to relax into a pattern, taking it scientifically. Charles was running a hand along his back, murmuring contented noises when it was really good, and Rodney decided that Charles's ears, jaw, and his nipples were all sensitive, but so was the line of his abdominal muscles, and that made Rodney smile as he mouthed kisses to the side of Charles's belly button. 
> 
> "Oh, that's...." Right there, yeah, and feeling Charles arch up under him, ass clenching just a little when Rodney stroked a hand down and just a little below him, that was good. That was perfect, and Charles was watching him, blue eyes gone hot and needy. "That's nice. Just... yeah. Like that." 
> 
> "Can I suck you?" He was so close, and he wanted to do it, wanted to taste Charles's cock with the perspective of an in-his-right-mind adult self. 
> 
> The fingers at the back of his neck stroked, slow and easy and good. "If you want to. Yeah. Just... just do whatever you want." And okay, maybe that was one of the good things about dating somebody in a soft science, not that Rodney really had any idea about what it was like to date much of anybody. 
> 
> "I want to." And Charles's cock was right there; jutting hard and red, and Rodney eyed it for a few seconds before he leaned forwards to lick the tip. Just a taste, just a slow motion, tongue pressing, and the feel of it was so soft, all salt and faint musk and velvety feel. For a minute, he thought it would trigger something, send him into panic and make him reel for the wastebasket not more than six feet away, but it didn't. It didn't, and he closed his lips over it then, and sucked. 
> 
> Different enough in situation and person that he was okay, then, and Rodney let his thumbs linger against Charles's hips, fingers roaming to touch at his ass, just to feel the tight muscle there while he sucked slowly. Heat and smooth skin against his tongue, pressing against the roof of his mouth, careful not to scrape, careful to tease just enough that it would throw Charles off balance. It seemed to work, because Rodney could feel the way he shifted, moved under his hands, under his mouth, and God. He only hoped it was as good as what Charles had done. That had been amazing, and he wanted to return the favor. 
> 
> He slipped one hand between Charles's legs to play with his balls, to feel them in his hands, touch the insides of his thighs, everything he could think of and wanted to do while he concentrated on the taste that was starting to gather in his mouth. Charles didn't protest, didn't seem to mind; he just shifted, rocked a little, and let Rodney have his way. 
> 
> That was good. That was so good, and Rodney thought incoherently that no one else had ever, had even suggested, that his way could be had at all. Not that he'd... well, but still, even if he had, he didn't think anybody could possibly just give in and let him do what he wanted. 
> 
> It wasn't as if he wanted to do anything grandiose, he just wanted to explore, feel, enjoy, slipping fingers behind Charles's balls to press at the skin there while he kept sucking. He liked that, after all, loved it, pressing just like so when he was close, really close, and the way Charles's breath got ragged said he did, too. That was good, good to know, good to feel, and the faint bucks of Charles's hips grew then, a little more like thrusting. 
> 
> Rodney let him, let his jaw go looser, kept sucking, and just drifted on the floating, gloating feeling that he was doing that, he was bringing a lover enjoyment. With just his hands and his mouth. For pleasure and nothing more. 
> 
> No other reason at all. 
> 
> Charles moaned, his fingers went tight, and that was all the warning Rodney got before a flood of salt made its way over his tongue, almost gagging him. He swallowed, as quickly as he could, and then pulled back, wiping at his mouth before he kissed the head of Charles's cock one last time. Not bad, not bad at all, and he could crawl back up over Charles, and kiss him and luxuriate for a while. 
> 
> It took a while before either of them spoke; mostly, Charles just touched him, stroked over his arm and shoulder, up to his neck. That was nice, was easy, and it made Rodney feel like it had been okay. Not a disaster, anyway, and when Charles finally did say something it was low, quiet. 
> 
> "Thank you." As if that was the polite thing to do; say thank you after a blow job. Rodney smiled a little, and pressed a kiss against the edge of Charles' mouth. 
> 
> "I really enjoyed that. I should be thanking you." It was just mellow and relaxed, and he could lie there for forever. 
> 
> Charles murmured, "Thanks all around," and turned to kiss Rodney back, and this was the best thing that had happened to him since before he could remember. 
> 
> Best person to person interaction, just... nice. Relaxing. Rodney curled fingers against the back of Charles's neck, and shifted a leg to rub against Charles's knee.

* * *

> Showgirls were the best thing ever. 
> 
> All right, possibly not ever. There were other good things, after all, like steak and money, and they had made a lot of money in the last three days. 
> 
> It was amazing, the showgirls, in particular. They were all shiny smooth skin and glitter, and feathers and carefully designed costumes and high heels that even Rodney was watching in fascination. Money bought tickets to showgirl performances, and steak, and ice cream, and Rodney said that they'd have repaid their vacation fund easily. 
> 
> He also said that the casinos were probably watching them very carefully, so they'd need to win and lose in appropriate amounts. That meant not counting where it could be recognized, and definitely not winning and winning and winning. Grant liked the game of it, winning in bits and pieces, losing in larger ones that didn't bite the entirety of the winnings. It was fun. 
> 
> It was a game in and of itself, and he liked the games, liked Rodney's bright smile while they played and counted and won, his even brighter smile when they played like normal people, won and lost on the house's chance because they were being watched, and then won again, and again. Rodney was basking in the bright, tacky alien-ness of it, and Grant liked the noise, the way it was dark but bright all at once, and oh, the showgirls. 
> 
> Best. Vacation. Ever. 
> 
> Grant avoided the drink of the man beside him, and flipped his cards. No, not a winning hand, but Rodney said not to win them all, and losing was good, too. 
> 
> He'd lose, Grant decided. Rodney had gone to find drinks. Not drink drinks, because Rodney wasn't a big fan of booze. Grant's therapist said it was a control thing, but also that it was good that Rodney didn't drink anyway, but that maybe he could work on the control issues. 
> 
> Maybe Rodney would come back with something sweet and fluffy. 
> 
> "Doin' pretty good there," the guy next to him rumbled, and he was ridiculously handsome. Maybe Grant should introduce him to Rodney, because showgirls were good for Grant, but this man had the prettiest green eyes ever. 
> 
> "I, yes, sometimes, but winning and losing and losing, and winning, it's, it's a vacation. For fun. Money for fun, and hi. I'm, my name's Grant. Grant McKay. It should have been Jansky, but there's a whole long story about that." Their mother had gone back to using her maiden name, and she'd changed Rodney's as well, so Grant had decided to be McKay, too, because being the same as Rodney was part of what Grant liked about being who they were. 
> 
> The man smiled, and turned towards the dealer, gesturing for one more card. "Where you from, guy?" 
> 
> "Oh, oh, we're from, well, I'm from Canada. And my brother, over there." Grant waved in the general direction Rodney had gone. "From Canada, originally, but, but we were in Massachusetts for a lot of time, and then, well, here." Here, Nevada, not here, Las Vegas, but that was kind of something Grant didn't want to explain. No talking about the job was Rule Number One. "You?" 
> 
> "Local. With the PD." It didn't sound like a threatening suggestion -- maybe a warning or an assurance? Grant had lots of people tell him that they were a fireman or a rescue EMT or a, a cop, and smile, and he never did understand why. "You should be careful about people if you're winning a lot." 
> 
> He waved a hand, tilted his head. "Oh. Oh, no, Rodney takes care of that. It's easier that way," he assured the guy, who was Local and with the PD. Grant let the dealer give him a card, but he wasn't really paying attention much. "You're nice. I, I like nice people." 
> 
> He already knew he was going to lose the hand. "I'm Warrick Brown. Nice to meet you, Grant." He checked his hand again, and Grant couldn't see it but didn't try to check it, either. He looked at his cards, and shook his head at them. "Doesn't look like it's going to be a good night for me, either." 
> 
> "It's fun. Losing, winning. Losing. I, we used to play. In college. Me and Rodney." Because they'd been broke, and practically starving. Miss Vicky had sent care packages but they were never enough, not when they were lying to her about how well things were going. "It was, we were good at it. Because, see, everybody else was pretty drunk." Except the ones that weren't, and sometimes Grant had been too... unstable to help Rodney any. "So. This, this is just like then. Except fun, because it's not money between us and supper." And he grinned, because yeah. That was really good. 
> 
> "Yeah. You watch out around here. Lots of things are illegal at the tables," the man, Warrick, told him, patting his shoulder for a second. "My boss used to do that through college." 
> 
> Grant nodded. "I, Rodney said. He's here somewhere." Somewhere, and Grant really hoped he came back soon. Warrick was nice. Also pretty hot, even for a man who preferred blondes and boobies. "We talked about all the things not to do in Las Vegas." 
> 
> Warrick glanced at the dealer as they moved to the next round and placed their bets. "Good, good. That's good. I hope you guys have fun on your vacation." 
> 
> "Two~o chocolate cherry milkshakes, chocolate ice cream on chocolate syrup." That was Rodney leaning over him, setting the plastic cup next to his hand. 
> 
> "Hi, Rodney!" Yes, that was good. Not just the chocolate cherry milkshakes, because Rodney maybe overindulged both of them on vacation, but also good that he was there. "This is Warrick. Warrick Brown. He's with the police department here in, in the city." 
> 
> Actually, Rodney always overindulged both of them on vacation. 
> 
> "Hello." Rodney threw a smile at Warrick, and pulled up the chair to Grant's other side. "Good hand, bad hand, got anything else you want to see tonight?" 
> 
> "Bad hand," Grant said, and folded, but he wanted to watch the rest of the game. "Let's, maybe, with the pretty blondes again?" Because really, Grant was all about those. 
> 
> The guy, Warrick, laughed. "Oh, hey, you, uh. Got a thing for the girls, huh?" 
> 
> He nodded thoughtfully. "Mmm. Yes. The blonde ones. Rodney, not so much. Rodney prefers...." Ow. Kicking should be outlawed. "Brains over blondes." 
> 
> "Oh, hey, me, too." Excellent. 
> 
> "We used to be blonds," Grant offered happily. 
> 
> Rodney didn't like Grant telling complete strangers about his sexual preferences. "What, when we were eight?" Rodney took a slurp of his milkshake. "So, what show do you want to go see, Grant?" 
> 
> He didn't really want to see anything. He did want Rodney to have someone new to date, though. Rodney didn't get out enough. He spent too much time at work, and all of his time at home was with Grant. He needed to get out more. "Hmmmm." He pretended to consider it while slurping at his own milkshake. Chocolate, chocolate, chocolate. 
> 
> He loved chocolate. He'd once, or twice or more than that talked about if he could make a girlfriend out of chocolate, but Rodney had pointed out that it would turn into cannibalism in short order because _chocolate_. 
> 
> "Hmmmm," Rodney repeated, smiling, mocking Grant a little, because he probably thought that Grant had too many choices. Though, the ones with the girls in green and the parrots had been fantastic. 
> 
> Grant had liked the parrots. 
> 
> "No," he finally decided. "I think I'm tired." They'd been playing for a while, here and there, flitting from casino to casino a little, and maybe it would be good to finish their milkshakes and go home. Policeman Warrick Brown didn't seem to want to go home with Rodney. 
> 
> He was smiling more at Grant than Rodney, and Grant wasn't particularly interested in other men except when his brother was knotted up and miserable and that was a different scenario. Though, Warrick Brown was very handsome. 
> 
> Rodney bumped his shoulder against Grant's. "Okay. Back to the hotel it is." He glanced at Warrick and nodded. "I hope your game goes well." 
> 
> The other man nodded back. "Hope you guys have a good vacation," he said, and that seemed pretty earnest. It was okay if it wasn't, though, because anybody not interested in his brother was just missing out, and it was best to wander off and leave them by the wayside. 
> 
> Grant had been doing that for years. 
> 
> He grabbed his milkshake and stood up, picking up what remained of his chips. "Supper, too?" he asked Rodney, because. Well. Milkshakes were good, but steak and baked potatoes were better. 
> 
> "Yeah. What kind?" The kind that included broccoli, which was strange of Grant, but he liked the taste, the texture against his tongue. He liked the flavor, too, green without the leaves. Broccoli was one of his favorite foods. 
> 
> "Steak and baked potatoes," he declared as they headed off the floor. "And dessert." That went without saying. 
> 
> Rodney laughed, letting his eyes scan neon lights and rows and rows of light bulbs. "Hey, tomorrow do you want to take in some of the museums?" Rodney probably didn't really want to, but he asked, asked for Grant. 
> 
> He had the best brother in the entire world. Grant never doubted it, even when he doubted everything else around him. He was having a good time, and he wasn't suffering any of the usual symptoms. Maybe he'd be better for good this time, or at least for a long time. Rodney deserved better than the bad bouts, anyway. 
> 
> "Yeah. I'd like that." Because the museums were cool, but time alone with his brother, when they were just being them, that was the coolest thing of all. 
> 
> No playing up parts of themselves for work, no trying extra hard, just themselves, looking at things, playing cards, watching shows, just being. He'd always liked just being with Rodney best of all.


	2. Chapter 2

Some days, no, most days, Rodney was convinced that Doctor Lee was a moron of the highest grade. 

He worked to be patient with the man, though, and eventually his patience had been rewarded by being given, briefly, a small office of his own to retreat to. Now, of course, Carter was saying something about his office going to the new leader of a new gate team, and how did he feel about going offworld? 

Not very hot about it, if he was honest, but he said he'd think about it, because seriously, who casually brought that up in conversation when he was clearly trying to rig up a makeshift power-source that was compatible with a weapon she'd brought him. It had taken all of his will power not to shoo her off, because her soldering work was really sort of slapdash, like she'd taken a course on How To Solder Wires To Circuit Boards from a drunk without thumbs. She got snotty when he got snippy at her, though, and he wasn't in the mood for SG-1's brand of lemon-threatening revenge, not then. 

It was a good thing that he loved Ancient technology and that they did retinal scans down there, or he would've traded with Grant for the day. 

Grant loved his job upstairs, and that was good for Rodney. Good to know, even if they both got eyeballed when they went to lunch together at the mess on base, and how stupid were people, really? If one person had asked them if they were brothers, fifteen had. They were twins. Of course they were brothers. How anybody could be allowed to work on this base when a little facial hair fooled them into asking a stupid question like that, Rodney wasn't sure. He thought maybe the SGC should use them as a testing ground. Those who didn't recognize them as twins should be transferred somewhere that it was safer to have stupid people. 

If a person couldn't figure it out without asking, they needed to be transferred out of the base. But no, they usually ended up going on gate missions, and then took the Big Transfer because they weren't all that bright. 

"Okay, okay.... Done, I'm done, I think I've got it." He stood up from the chair he'd been sitting on, picking up the power source carefully. "Do you want to test it?" 

Carter looked up at him, and the blue eyes that seemed to have everyone on base halfway in love with her widened a little. "Ready if you are." She glanced down and made one last adjustment, then nodded. "You know, I'm serious. About the offworld thing. You'd be a fantastic addition to one of the teams, McKay." 

"And, I said I need some time to think about it." He rolled his shoulders a little before he aimed it at the stack of ceramic plates that he personally preferred to test on when they were in a lab. He needed to discuss it with his brother. He needed to see if he could even get Grant to accept the idea, and that was if he even decided he wanted to do offworld missions. "It's not really just my decision." 

"Oh. I understand." Except she didn't, not really. She probably thought Grant was some sort of savant, socially inept and incapable of dealing with life on any sort of higher level outside of his obvious abilities with computers and electronics. People often did. 

People, as a group, were stupid, and very, very wrong. One day, they'd all need Grant to drag their asses out of some sort of fire, and he'd enjoy that day when it came to an end, and everything was all right. For so many reasons. 

She stepped out of the blast site and set up a shield to keep the plate bits from blasting them without refusing to allow the weapon's fire to strike, if it worked. "Ready." 

It wasn't a conventional trigger pull weapon -- there was a mental component, and buttons to depress, though the mental component was less sensitive than the ones the Ancients used. It was open to any mind, and that was what made the tech interesting. 

The shield was a little overkill, though, because when Rodney pulled the trigger they were lucky it hit the plates at all, singing one. "Oh, yes, this one's really battlefield ready. You'll be able to mow down the enemy with this little puppy..." 

Her disappointment wasn't obvious, but he was aware of it. "Maybe it's the power source. Do you think we can...." 

Yes, yes, yes. Of course he could, because Rodney knew what that actually meant. 

"Yes, yes, let me see if I can amp it up. Are you sure that Jackson translated this correctly? It's not a trainer weapon, meant for six year olds?" In the opinions of most of the base, the sun rose and set on Daniel Jackson, much like Carter. He was a lot hotter, though, and early dating experience had taught Rodney that it wasn't a step down to fool around with someone in the soft sciences. 

"I can't guarantee anything, of course," Carter began, and the claxon went off. Rodney had counted it, and her approximation of every third day had obviously been a lie to provide him with a false cushion of comfort in regards to how often they had those kinds of emergencies at the SGC. 

It was a hell of a lot closer to three every day or maybe every other day, shit will hit the wall three times, but he was fairly sure it averaged out to at least one event a day, and she wanted him on a gate team? "That your people or is that SG-9?" He wasn't going to get up -- he was already opening the weapon up, trying to work out how best to overpower the damn weapon. 

They'd be lucky if it didn't fry itself on the first attempt at using it. 

"I..." 

And then there was a call for her over the intercom, and she went running off to answer it. The fact that they, the Powers That Be, allowed a mind like hers to get shot at on a regular basis... Well. It was pretty stupid, if anybody asked Rodney, which they didn't. 

It was probably for the best. 

He was sure he'd have to abandon the weapon, and meeting Grant for lunch was a fairy tale of a hope just then. He'd give it fifteen minutes before someone called for him, too, and probably Doctor Lee, because it was one of those days. 

Hopefully the gate wasn't stuck open. 

* * *

So far, today had been okay. 

Well, okay for him. Grant could tell when Rodney had roused him from drug-induced sleep with coffee and uppers that it wouldn't be good for Rodney. Sometimes, Mer needed a break, and with this job, Grant couldn't give it to him. 

Grant liked his job, and he knew Rodney enjoyed his, but some days it just wasn't worth chewing through the proverbial straps. 

The fact that his brother wasn't there for lunch meant that it was going to be a bad day. Most days, they met for lunch. Most days, the ones where the Emergency of The Day wasn't one that required Rodney's presence. Sometimes, they paged for Doctor McKay in the Cafeteria and Rodney ran off with a pudding cup and a wave. This didn't even look like a day that Rodney was showing up at all. Grant was careful to look around before he sat down. 

He didn't see Rodney anywhere, just on the off-chance that he'd been short on time and decided to meet Grant. Instead, there was someone he recognized in a corner, sprawled into a chair, Canadian flag on his left shoulder, and oh. 

Oh, wow. 

Grant cut his way through the cafeteria, determination filling him out to his fingertips and toes, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this way. 

Tangled up and surprised and not really surprised but stunned, maybe, and maybe he'd gotten the wrong person, but he tended not to do that half as much as Rodney did. He set his tray down across from the man -- Canada! There just weren't enough of them, and Grant felt the urge to tell everyone about the grocery store that had Aero bars where they could watch Sam Carter stammer every time they ran into her -- and sat down. 

The man glanced up, and okay, he probably didn't recognize Grant, but he smiled nice enough. "Hey." 

"You're John." Grant knew it, and he was pleased when the guy looked at him again, startled that he knew it. "From, from the Auxiliary Police in, in 1982." Which made him a Nice Guy. There weren't enough nice guys in the world. 

A funny look crossed over his face, and he half-opened his mouth, and that made Grant smile. "You... are you kidding me? You're..." 

"Grant. Grant McKay. Well, Doctor McKay, but there are two of us. Mer -- Rodney -- he works somewhere else. In the base. When they call, you know, over, over the intercom? That, that's not me, that's Rodney." 

"So you're -- wow, it's a small world," John murmured, picking up his fork, head tilted to look, really actually look at Grant, and Grant knew most people didn't. "Which uh, which one are you?" 

"Rodney came to rescue me." Better to clarify it that way, he thought, than to say he had been the one in prison. In hell, and that was knowledge he never lost. Not really. Knowing what it was. "Rodney's my, he's the brave one. You're brave, too. Because of what, how, you helped. Thank you. I, I couldn't say it, then, but now. Thank you." Grant put his tray on the table and sat down." 

The man smiled, and shook his head a little. "There's nothing to thank me for. You're... wow, it's good to see that you're all right. I always sort of wondered what happened to you two, but..." He gestured at Grant, a vague welcoming motion. 

"We, that is, well. Rodney thought, he, he wanted to go back. To school. To school, you know, MIT. Except, except they wouldn't, he was..." Grant stopped and took a deep breath. "We were too young. So, so he went with me. To foster care. And then we went back to MIT together." Because Grant had been way ahead of the game, educationally. What he'd done in his mind, with pens and paper, had been brilliant because they, he, Rodney, they were geniuses. The English had been hard to catch up on, grammar, that kind of thing. But that was what tutors were for, and Grant had passed all of the right tests by the time their year with Miss Vicky was up. 

It had been a really good year, all in all. Grant watched John smile slowly. "And now you both work here? What department are you with, Grant? I'm, uh. Major John Sheppard, by the way. Member of the Canadian Forces Air Command." 

Cool. That was just... "Oh, I, I'm with IT. DOIM. I do, I work with computers, build systems..." Clean out the amazing amounts of dust. "Rodney, Rodney, though, he's, he works with classified information." Classified, except that Grant knew as much about it as Rodney did. That was how they were. 

Sometimes he wished other people knew, except that was the whole point of it. Sheppard raised his eyebrows. "Downstairs, you mean. Way downstairs?" 

Grant nodded. "I'm, I don't go down there. Paperwork, and..." He pointed at his head, a little shame-facedly. "You know. They think, not, not stable enough. To know. Which is just..." Stupid. "But you. What do, where do you work? Here? Major Sheppard, Canadian Forces Air Command?" That was cool, too. 

Grant loved running into fellow Canadians. He loved meeting people who didn't think that they came from some magical land of peace and unicorns, because if it was a magical land, Grant was pretty sure he never would have let Rodney drag him away. Except, it wasn't. It was just home, kind of. "I just transferred in, actually. I've got some stuff to take care of up here for a day or so, but I'm supposed to be going downstairs, too." 

That made Grant's day. "Oh. Oh, that's, that's just excellent because, because, well, Rodney, and I should introduce you to him. Because, well, you, you're a nice guy, and...." And the last guy he'd introduced to Rodney had turned out to be kind of a jackass. Actually. So, introducing Rodney to John.... 

Seemed like a great idea, as far as Grant was concerned. Simple, easy, because they sort of already knew each other. Ish. 

"Yeah, well. I didn't stay with the Auxillary Police. And I'm originally from America, but uh. I guess I went to college up there and liked it so much that I stayed. That doesn't mean I'm a nice guy." 

There were a lot of things that didn't make someone a nice guy. Talking to Mer and Grant when they had been so messed up instead of letting the policeman talk to them, that made him a nice guy. Grant had been terrified of everybody, and then John had been there, and he'd... he had made things okay. Better, anyway. 

Grant decided not to argue the point. "Nope. There are other things that make somebody a nice guy. So." He pointed at the patch on John's arm with his fork before digging into a pile of green beans. "You, you fly things." 

"Yep. I'm a pilot. You name it, I can fly it, but mostly helicopters. I've been overseas on a few deployments. Just got back from one. It's nice not to get shot at during lunch." He smiled when he said it, and possibly the best thing was that he wasn't talking to Grant like Grant was impaired. He wasn't. He was just... he had verbal ticks and a hard time handling some things. 

That was all. 

"What's your favorite helicopter?" Grant asked, and settled in for the long haul. If Rodney's day was bad, maybe Grant would have something to tell him about when he came dragging up from the depths of the mountain that would make him feel better. 

"I think it'd have to have been the CH-146 Griffon. We replaced the old Iroquois with them, and they were really maneuverable machines." John stopped, and smiled as he picked up his sandwhich. "You like helicopters at all?" 

"No," Grant admitted. "But, but I don't like flying. I, I, it's just, it's really far. From the ground. And I keep thinking about how far it is and then the physics, the math, and, and how hard we'd hit if the engine cuts out. I can't help it." 

"I've actually been in a couple of crashes. The bright side is that you can't fall faster than the Earth standard gravity -- the bad side is that the helicopter's going to collapse on top of you when you hit ground. Well, that and the fuel igniting. But good pilots try to get as close to the ground in a slow, safe manner as possible before things get that bad. And a lot of helicopters have two engines rotating the blades, so you're not going down from just mechanical failure." 

Well, that was a relief to know, if he ever had to be up in a helicopter. He really hoped he wouldn't. "That's...." Yeah, actually, still a little nerve-wracking. "So, are you seeing anyone?" After all. It was important to know when he was planning to introduce him to Rodney. 

There was that startled look again, that made Grant want to laugh. "Uh, what? Am I... seeing anyone?" 

"Seeing, dating, um. Married?" Grant asked, because that would be a disappointment. "Not for me! Because, because I prefer blondes. Actually. Oh, and breasts. So, not skinny blondes, like Colonel Carter. Not that she doesn't have nice breasts, but, but, skinny. So. Not my type, either. Besides, she, she kind of seizes up whenever we see her in the grocery store. They have Aero bars!" 

There was a beat of silence, and then John answered, "Uh, no, not married or seeing anyone, and you've found a grocery store that has Aero bars?" 

Oh, that was excellent. Really excellent. Grant nodded. "It's a couple of miles from our house. Where we live. Me and..." Mer, except, no. "...Rodney." He was eating and talking, and Miss Vicky had always said that was rude, but, well. Time. "You should, if you want, we could show you. That is, Rodney. He doesn't get out enough." 

"Rodney doesn't get out enough. Well, seeing as I'll be working downstairs, I'll probably run into him sometime..." 

That would be a start, in any case. "Oh, oh, that's, that's very good. I think, well, you seem like a nice person, even if you say you aren't, and maybe, that is, I was thinking..." 

"Yeah?" He wasn't even making guesses, finishing Grant's sentences, and while that was kind of nice, he liked to think that he was being pretty obvious about it. 

"Maybe you'd be interested in helping me get, get Rodney out more?" He was hopeful about that, yes, he was. 

"Oh, uh. Sure. Sure. I don't know anyone in the area, not that I've run into." He took a sip of his milk carton. "Not that I wouldn't be surprised if some of the guys I trained up with showed up out of the clear blue, too. Now, at least. But, sure." 

Grant couldn't stop himself from beaming. He'd met an old friend, a nice guy, and he was going to introduce somebody to his brother, who seriously did need to get out more. All things considered, even with Rodney probably stuck underground somewhere, it was a start to something that would hopefully be a good thing. 

Best day ever. 

* * *

> Some of the best mathematical work came from the depths of insanity. 
> 
> He'd sat up for two nights and polished off his dissertation, left a disjointed note with his professor, worked two long weekend shifts at his department store piano job, and he was so drained, so disjointed so strung out... It had been amazing, and he'd finished his dissertation, and the math, the math of his theories were beautiful and he knew his note was going to invite comment from his mentor because, well, he'd pointed out that it might be incoherent and to make notes and he'd pick it up in two weeks which had to be enough time to read it and digest it. 
> 
> If only his head would stop going round and round in circles now. 
> 
> He was tired, and he heard music all the time, the same faint, tinkling theme at the back of his mind. It wasn't piano music, not the music he played. It was something else, something that was in the back of his mind all the time. He was seeing things, too, hallucinations, and that... well, it sure wasn't a good sign. 
> 
> It was a bad sign, a really fucking horrible sign, and he just, he just needed to rest. He needed to sleep and eat and rest and get his head back together because if he fell apart, who was going to take care of Grant? 
> 
> "Hey, I'm home." 
> 
> He was home, but there wasn't any answer. That either meant Grant was still at class or... Or something. Rodney was too tired to know, but he heard something in the bedroom, so he stumbled in that direction. 
> 
> "Hey. Grant?" He wandered in closer, knocked gently on the door to Grant's bedroom, and tried to push back the feeling -- it was almost more of a feeling of music than a sound of it, though he could definitely hum along -- that was haunting him. "Grant?" 
> 
> Grant had a bedroom of his own that he never used, that Rodney wasn't sure Grant had ever even seen, really. When he pushed open the door, he felt his heart drop somewhere around his stomach. 
> 
> God. 
> 
> He had hoped Grant was getting better, that things were going to be okay. This? This was not a sign that anything would be okay. 
> 
> "Grant...." He was building, which wasn't bad in and of itself. There were structured models, fine, working demos, yes, fantastic, but this was, was, Rodney didn't know what it was. Messy, half done, half baked things, metal twisted together. "Hey." 
> 
> When he looked up, he was all wide eyes, and his fingers were jerking, shaking. "Hihi Mer. Hiiii, Mer. Hiiiii, Meeeer," he said, trying it out as if the different ways it felt on his tongue were important somehow. 
> 
> "Hi." He approached Grant more cautiously, knelt down, reaching for him. "You don't look so good." 
> 
> "I'm, I'm, I'm, I've got, I wanted, this. Model. Of, of, it's, but it's not, not accurate. Not, I'm, hey, Rodney? I'm, I think I'm...." Grant stopped, huffed out a breath. "But, yeah. Onto something. I need, I need strings. Lots of, of string. I already, already, I, I took apart the, the radio, and put it, it's back together. We get, we get more, more stuff. More clear stuff." 
> 
> He clutched hard at Grant's shoulders, and while he might have put the radio back together, Rodney had no idea what Grant had done or tried to make with the pile. "Okay, Okay, I believe you. I, uh, Jesus, I fell apart and forgot about you for two days, but my thesis is done and Grant, when... when did you last take your medications?" 
> 
> Blinking. Rapid blinking, and Grant's eyes looked scratchy, his expression weirdly blank. "Um." 
> 
> That creeped the hell out of Rodney, but he had no idea how he looked. But they couldn't both fall apart. "Hey. C'mere, we'll go to the kitchen and figure it out. When did you eat last?" When had he eaten last, himself? And it wasn't as if Grant was going to answer him, and he half wanted to ask Grant if he heard music. 
> 
> Rodney didn't want to know the answer. Either way. If he did, it was a bad sign. If he didn't... it was a bad sign. 
> 
> "O-o-okay," Grant stuttered, but he looked away, and then he was distracted, fidgeting with one of the metal pieces. Rodney wondered where they'd come from. 
> 
> "Grant." Rodney pulled at his shoulders that time, starting to stand up. "C'mon. Now, and I mean it. For both of us." 
> 
> That tug seemed to get Grant's attention, at least a little. "Mer! You're home!" He yelled it, and then flung his arms around Rodney happily. 
> 
> "I'm home." It didn't feel right, though, and Rodney hugged Grant tightly for a moment because god, that scared the hell out of him. "C'mon. Kitchen, drugs, now." 
> 
> "Okay." Okay, as if he was going to go along easily, as if it would be all right. "Hey, Mer? I did maths while you were gone. New ones. Want to see?" His hands were shaking against Rodney, fluttering. 
> 
> "And you took apart the radio, and fixed it, huh? Yeah, you can show me, but kitchen first." First, and he knew he had to keep stressing it or Grant would go diving for paper. They both needed to bathe, too, but that could go after Grant was medicated again, and that was a miserable state of existence. 
> 
> He was glad that the hallway was short. 
> 
> Grant talked to him all the way to the kitchen, talked in numbers and theorems, and some of them made sense and some of them didn't. The music in the back of Rodney's head intensified, additional instruments, something. He was pretty sure that he saw something waving in the kitchen window, but maybe that was just the tree outside. 
> 
> He wasn't going to look, because if he looked he was going to freak himself right the fuck out, and it was bad enough that he had almost a static line of code running down the side of his peripheral vision to the left. He glanced at the careful pill bottles Grant had, and could tell that they hadn't been moved from where he'd put them in the cabinet -- kitchen because the humidity in the bathroom had been a problem for one of Grant's drugs, once, and he wasn't ever going to let that happen again. "Here, this and this, and I'll get you water, okay? You have to stay with me and take these, Grant. Okay? Because I'm not feeling really good right now and I need you to help me here. We've got to work together." 
> 
> Against their own minds. 
> 
> He wondered sometimes if this was the reason their mother was the way she was. If this was why she'd done what she had done, because she was crazy, completely and totally insane, and if they were heading in the same direction. He wished he dared to ask, but he didn't. He didn't want to know. 
> 
> "I don't like them, Mer. That one, that, that, that one tastes funny and the other one makes me tired." 
> 
> And who would he have asked? His stepfather? He could ask her, of course, but that was, oh, crazy. "I know, but I need you clear headed for me," Rodney coaxed, holding the two pills in one hand while he pulled a glass of tap water for Grant. "One of us has to be." 
> 
> "Don't, don't, don't you, you don't, you don't feel good, Mer?" 
> 
> "No." No, he didn't. "I'm, I'm hearing music and seeing static. I haven't slept in two days and while I finished my dissertation, I'm starting to have doubts on how coherent it might be. On the bright side," he went on, offering the glass and the pills to Grant, hoping that talking would distract him into just taking them, "I think I played the best that I ever have at work." 
> 
> Piano, in a department store, at Christmas. If that was the bright spot in his week, it was a bad sign. 
> 
> "Music?" That seemed to pique Grant's interest. He put the pills in his mouth and swallowed, trying to talk and ending up choking. 
> 
> "Swallow, Grant, please just swallow." He waved a hand a little, watching while Grant did swallow and seemed to stop choking, which meant it was just water choking and not Heimlich choking. "Yeah." 
> 
> Grant kept coughing for a minute. "I, I, I wish, I'd like to, to hear music. I just, I don't hear music. I just. I can't sleep, Mer." He sounded woeful about it. "Can't sleep, can't sleep, just, I have to, I need to go and...." 
> 
> "Okay. I haven't slept, either. Want me to, I'll make us something to eat and then we can both go sleep?" He had Benadryl in there somewhere, in the kitchen medicine cabinet, which was also probably insane of him. Maybe they were both in manic upswings or something. Rodney wasn't sure, because he didn't feel like conquering the world or anything but he also couldn't, just hadn't slept and he'd failed to notice what Grant was doing, which made him a horrible brother. 
> 
> "Can't sleep," Grant said again, but he was watching Rodney, watching him open the mostly empty fridge to pull out a loaf of bread and some peanut butter, search for their lone butter knife. 
> 
> He needed to go grocery shopping, too. He had a toaster, and decided that toasted peanut butter might be better than just plain peanut butter and oh, god, he _was_ seeing something waving at him from the window or it was windy out and the tree was going to get him. "We will. I promise." 
> 
> "Oh, oh, okay. Okay." He drifted to the side, poked into one of the cabinets for glasses. "I'm, I'm thirsty." Never mind that he already had a glass where he'd just taken his medication. 
> 
> "Just a small glass," Rodney murmured, pulling out the bread before it got too crispy. "We need to sleep." Sleep, and not wet the bed or vomit because there'd been too much drinking and not enough sleeping or medication in the last however many days. He really wasn't sure if it had been two days or a week since he last made any coherent sense. 
> 
> Grant was looking at the glasses when Rodney finally looked up from the nearly empty jar of peanut butter, had reached up for their coffee cups and begun to stack them. There were just the two cups, and they had four glasses. God only knew where the fourth was, but Grant was moving all of them in some kind of configuration that looked vaguely like a pyramid, or he was trying. The limited number of items didn't help any. 
> 
> The fact that they weren't all the same size wasn't helping, either. "Sandwich," Rodney offered, holding the toasted peanut butter sandwich out to Grant while he made another for himself. A trip to the grocery store was definitely in order; see what cash he could scrounge up. It was the holidays, so he didn't really see a problem getting into a soup kitchen or something, whenever they'd gotten some sleep. 
> 
> "I, but I, but Mer, I..." And then Grant seemed to follow that there was a sandwich there, so he reached for it, took it clumsily and began to nibble at the edges, just the edges. Crunch, crunch, and it was in time with the music. Maybe he should ask. 
> 
> Rodney didn't bother toasting his, just slapped it together and put the jar back in the fridge. It wasn't really satisfying, but. But it was food and Grant had his meds, so life was okay. "Hey, Grant? Do you hear music?" 
> 
> Blank look. Oh god. "Did I, I left, but I thought, the radio? Isn't on?" And that was an answer, and it was just as bad as Rodney had thought it would be. "Did I, I mean, I, I, I made it better." 
> 
> "I'm sure you did, and we'll test it out later." He'd half hoped Grant would say yes, and half-hoped he wouldn't, but he hadn't anticipated his stomach sinking like that. He turned back to the cabinet, and grabbed the Benadryl. 
> 
> One way or another, they'd manage to sleep, and maybe, maybe, when it was all said and done, it'd be better. Things would make sense, that ghastly skeletal waving at the kitchen window and the sound of music drifting through would be gone. It would be okay. They'd manage to scrape enough money together for a few staple foods, and he had enough for this month's rent. 
> 
> It would get better. 
> 
> It had to.

* * *

> The thing about moving was that it was expensive. And while he'd been given a sum of money for the move, Rodney also knew that it'd take another, oh, whole month of working before he saw a paycheck. On the other hand, Grant had found work, too, same location, starting two weeks later, so they'd be good, fine. He'd quit the department store job, but picked up about three weeks of playing as a fill in at an Italian restaurant that he was sure was going to crash and burn. There was an Olive Garden two blocks away that served blander Americanized food, and Rodney could guess why the previous pianist had quit. Probably to pick up waiting tables at the competition. 
> 
> But that wasn't going to be him anymore. He had a new job, new life, new state to go to. New apartment, and maybe sometime a house. 
> 
> It didn't explain why he was so nervous while the movers waltzed in and out of their shithole of an apartment, trying to keep Grant from getting underfoot. They had to pack everything up, and itemize every box, and Grant didn't like his things being touched. Grant didn't like change. 
> 
> Rodney didn't like it much, either, but it was a job. A real job, one that meant money and putting their degrees to use, doing math for profit instead of fun. 
> 
> They'd filled in the holes in their shitty apartment with toothpaste, and Rodney had gone to the effort of picking up a little paint to cover up the times Grant had crawled into closets and drawn figures and equations on the walls, sometimes with markers, sometimes with fingertips bleeding from nails bitten to the quick. The likelihood of getting their security deposit back wasn't good, but what the hell. It was worth the effort. 
> 
> "I, did we, is Kitty....?" Packed, safely ensconced in the box with all of their prized possessions, so that nothing would happen to her. She wouldn't get left behind, and it was important to both of them. 
> 
> "Yeah." Rodney was just going to stand in the kitchen and watch the TV get packed up. "Yeah, safe. Going on the drive with us." Mostly, he hoped he could clean the place up enough that whoever they rented from in the future wasn't told off about renting to them. "I should get the car tuned up so we can actually get there in one piece." 
> 
> "I can help." It was an offer meant to the depths of him, and Grant was getting better at the whole cleaning up after them thing, about doing one thing while Rodney took care of something else. They were having a good stretch, and the meds were mostly working now. 
> 
> When the meds were working, most of the other stresses in day to day life seemed smaller. Money was still a problem, but it soon wasn't going to be. They'd have jobs that paid well, have insurance, and Rodney was looking forward to that. To having a routine, to having a day in day out work life, because as much as he'd enjoyed ripping people to shreds in academia, it was all theory. There'd only been one lab fire, and even that hadn't been a life or death matter. 
> 
> "No, they're being paid to do this. We can't really pack our own stuff, or they have to repack it." 
> 
> Grant rolled his eyes, and Rodney was pretty sure people had seen that look on his face, too. "Help you, Rodney." 
> 
> "Hmn? Help me do what?" He was just 'supervising' -- because, well, those men knew moving, and Rodney didn't, so he wasn't going to tell them how to do their jobs -- and that was pretty no effort. 
> 
> His brother let out a huffed sigh and shook his head. "The car? And, and it's gonna be, when? Tomorrow? Day after before we leave. We need, the car has to be checked, and snacks for the drive, and I, we've got separate bags. For taking with us." They'd be sleeping on blankets on the floor for a couple of nights, too, so Rodney needed to be sure they had a box for those. 
> 
> Okay, yeah, they did. They needed to get snacks -- hell, a cooler, because he and Grant were driving 2,700 plus miles, give or take mileage due to rest stops and breaks, but it was going to be a hell of a drive, and he and Grant were going to have to switch off and he'd probably need to set a timer so Grant would keep on his med schedule. "Okay, yeah." 
> 
> "Then, I'll, I'll go down. To the grocery." Grant's chin tilted up happily, head cocked. "So, so you should make a list, because otherwise..." Otherwise, Grant would come back with more chocolate than anything else, and that sent both of them coasting on wild blood sugar rushes and drops. It was a bad idea to let him go without one, and they both knew it. The urge to buy the chocolate, even when it was cheap chocolate, never seemed to go away for Grant. 
> 
> Even Rodney was a little discerning about chocolate. He liked the kind that wasn't so gooey and sweet that it made the top of the back of his throat ache to eat. The suggestion sent Rodney scrabbling through the as yet not packed junk drawer, grabbing a half-used notepad and a pen that he hoped would work. "Okay, travel food. Travel food... Water, gatoraide are musts." 
> 
> "And, and pretzels. Chips." That was good, because the munchies always seemed to strike halfway through a car trip of any sort. The last time they'd managed to scrape together money to go 'home' and visit with Miss Vicky and Mister Alex, they'd realized somewhere around hour four of driving that it was stop and get chips or possibly start gnawing on their own forearms. 
> 
> And while it wasn't healthy, it was road friendly. Cheetos, not so much -- Rodney preferred to leave those to whoever was the passenger. But they tasted passably like Cheezies, and he liked them, craved them occasionally. It was probably the salt and cheese. "Right. Any specific chips?" He put a dash beside chips to list them out. 
> 
> "I, I think, can we, Doritos? Doritos," Grant decided, "And, if we can, I think, Funyuns? Funyuns." Because those were salty, too, and oniony. "And, and Coke, I think." 
> 
> Cheetos, Doritos, Funyuns, coke... Gum, Rodney added at the bottom, and then added apples, bananas at the bottom. "Okay, I think we can live off of crap food for two days and not die." 
> 
> "And, and peanut butter," Grant added, pointing to the fruit. He was right, it would be good with them, and protein was always a good idea. 
> 
> He stuck Beef Jerky down at the bottom as an afterthought, in with the peanut butter. "Okay, that's a list. You gunna be okay doing that?" 
> 
> Ah, that was the look. The one that said yes, yes, absolutely, Grant wasn't five, nor was he stupid. He just... they just weren't always at their best. "I can get the snacks," he said slowly, and then grinned, bounced a little on his feet. "Unless, unless you'd rather. Because I can look for Kitty." 
> 
> "No, no, I've got that. You, get the snacks, and I'll be up here, supervising." He wasn't going to interfere with his brother, because if Grant said he could do it, well, at worst they'd end up with weird apples. 
> 
> Rodney could live with weird apples, especially if he could cover them with peanut butter. Grant wouldn't bring anything bruised or smushed, so they'd be edible. It was better to let him run out to the store than to leave him there to randomly open boxes and look for Kitty. 
> 
> Kitty needed to go in a suitcase, it was that simple, and Rodney decided he'd see to that right away, while Grant ran out. It took him a minute to dig out his wallet, but Grant needed cash in hand. "Here. I'll be right up here." 
> 
> Grant waved at him, and headed out the door, as if it was just that easy. As if he was always well enough to do that, medicated and well-rested, and the thought of things being that way for them, always, nearly stopped Rodney's breath for a moment. 
> 
> Maybe it could be. Maybe, if they had the money to push down a lot of other stresses, and the time to get Grant into good therapy, and not to have to pick food or meds, and just... to have space to live without being on top of each other. It wasn't so much to ask, but it could really make Grant's quality of life amazing again. 
> 
> And Rodney wanted that. 
> 
> For both of them.

* * *

Shit had exploded. 

Everything always exploded, Rodney decided tiredly, and ruffled concrete dust out of his hair as he stumped his way towards his soon-not-to-be-his office. 

Sometimes he wished it just wasn't so... so damn vivid. He'd felt the shockwave, had to shield his eyes, and he still felt strung out, dirty -- which was pretty obvious -- and now he had to face the reality that at the end of the day... he had to pack his crap back up to be ready to move into the general labs again, or possibly in with Lee. Who knew, the way things rotated around in SGC. He half-thought that they enjoyed fucking with the floor plan for the hell of it, and not with security measures in mind. 

Some days, he thought the coolness of his job in no way made up for the stress, and that he should just throw his arms up and start looking for a job with Grant. 

Of course, on those days, he reminded himself of just how cool the Stargate was -- wormholes, aliens! -- and then he decided that it might be worth the stress after all. 

Rodney schlepped his way to the office and ran his card through the reader. It was a miracle that the reader gave him a green light and a low beep that let him pull the door open. He was dripping dust everywhere, and it was maddening to see it in the air around him like a Peanuts-style animated cloud, clinging in his nose. Rebuilding that wall was going to take, oh, given the speed of internal repairs in the facility, weeks. 

"Oh, man. You're kind of a mess." 

Of course the new guy was in his office already. Of course. It was just that kind of day. 

"Yes, well, it's been one of those days. Look, you're not supposed to be here until, I think I was given two more days to get out of here, and seeing as I had a wall almost fall on me today, nothing is leaving here today." He wasn't even sure if he wanted to bother checking his mail before he left or not. There'd just be hand wringing subordinates, who wanted to prematurely absolve themselves of any fault. 

The guy put up his hands, stepped back slightly. He was all messy black hair and hazel green eyes with ears so pointy they probably got jokes about elves. "Hey, no problem. I was just given a card and it worked so I poked my head inside. That's all." 

"Good, fantastic. I suppose I should be grateful that my card still works." He ran a hand through his hair, and gave himself a violent dusting, absently hoping that he got it on the man's shirt. He reached for his messenger bag, and started to stuff some of his less classified notes into it. "I'm Doctor Rodney McKay, I assume I'll be pulling your ass scientifically out of a fire sometime if you don't end up dead in your first two weeks here, and if the latter's the case, I'll be reclaiming my office." 

That grin was just ridiculously pleased with himself. "Yeah. I know who you are. Had lunch with the other Dr. McKay upstairs. He mentioned you'd be down here." Striding forward, he held out a hand. "Major John Sheppard. Canadian Forces Air Command." 

"Oh." Oh, and hell, well, that was a little better than he'd been expecting. "Well, welcome to deep in the pits of American hell, Major Sheppard. I hope you don't end up like one of those Marines who're smeared on the far wall of the gateroom as we speak. Don't -- look, don't ever volunteer just to stand and watch the thing. It's more dangerous than you'd suspect. There's all of four Canadians working down here right now, and that includes you. We now officially have enough for a poker game the next time the base locks down." He took Major Shepparrd's hand and shook it. 

"Actually...." That duck of his head was obviously a well-used ploy. It was perfectly shy and flirtatious all at once. "I dunno about the fourth, but they said since I was going to get a gate team, there might be a Canadian scientist who'd agree to go out with us...." 

And Carter couldn't give him a day to think about it and talk about it with Grant first? "Right, well, amusingly enough, Carter already spoke to me about that this morning and despite your alluring facial expressions, I'm going to give you the same answer I gave her: I have other considerations to think about, and need time to come to a decision. You realize that gate work isn't exactly safe, don't you, or did they pull the wool over your eyes when they suckered you into this mission?" 

"Hey..." The hands up thing seemed to be something of a habit. "I know exactly what you mean. You've got family to think about. I already said I had lunch with Grant upstairs a little while ago, you know? I was just...." 

"Hoping I'd say yes to a Canadian quicker than I would to Carter?" Well, that was possible, but still, he wasn't going to. Not much quicker, certainly not right then. And then what Sheppart, no, Sheppard -- emblazoned nice and big on his name patch -- was saying sank in a little. "You ate lunch with my brother?" 

"Yeah. He... uh. He recognized me. From a long time ago. So, I had company at lunch before they finished up the stuff allowing me to come down here." Sheppard shrugged. 

Rodney was desperately tempted to shed another layer of cement dust at the man, for having the audacity to stand there near Rodney's desk looking... That slouchy and shrugging and relaxed. "Grant recognized you. From where, if you mind me asking?" Hopefully it wasn't one of Grant's classes, because Rodney had never thought much of Grant's classmates, and if he knew Grant from group therapy, Rodney was going to be as far from interested as possible, and while it wasn't impossible, Grant was the friend-maker of the two of them. He enjoyed talking to completely random people, with no regard as to their interest or lack of. 

He shouldered his messenger bag, in case it was one of those answers that would compel him to make a quick escape. 

Sheppard seemed as uncomfortable as he was. "Uh. I did a stint with the Auxiliary Police when I was in my first year at Western Ontario. Night shifts, mostly, you know. Towards the end, we got called to a robbery in progress. Turned out not to be." 

"Oh, you, you, you're..." Oh, shit. The guy who'd helped him talk Grant out, who'd been hanging around the office when he'd finally been dragged out of the hospital and down to the police station a day later to be grilled like a fish. 

"Yeah." Yeah, and he looked a little embarrassed about it, even though, God, he shouldn't. He shouldn't, because he'd managed to keep Rodney from imploding, and back then... well, it hadn't been an easy job. "Sorry." 

"No, I, uh. No one around here knows about that. I'm uh, surprised you asked me to go into the field, given..." Well, given that he'd gotten himself nearly arrested and certainly threatened with it a couple of times, because what kind of sixteen year old didn't turn in his crazy mother except, of course, one who had a crazy mother. 

"Given that I hear you're pretty brilliant, and back then... well, that's got to mean you're pretty resilient, too. All things considered. Not that I'd tell anybody 'bout that or anything." 

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't." He shifted a hand on the strap, fingers nervous. "Most people back in Area 51 just thought Grant was mentally handicapped, and as obnoxious as that is, I prefer it to people... knowing." 

That seemed to make sense to the guy at least. "People are a pain in the ass when it comes to the assumptions they make. Knowing'd just make 'em even more a pain in the ass." Sheppard shook his head. "I like your brother. He seems like a good guy. I wouldn't want to cause any trouble." 

He still might end up causing trouble for them, but. "He is a good guy. He should be down here working with me, but then, I have walls almost crush me on bad days, so he's safer up in the IT office." He cleared his throat. "I'm uh. Marginally sorry for insulting you, if I did, when I came in." 

"Hey, no problem. I mean, I'm in your office, and then I asked a stupid question, so... yeah. It's good." Sheppard grinned. "So, uh. I'll let you think about that. Whatever you decide is good." 

"Okay. I'll, uh. See you around, then." He made it more of a statement than a question, and started towards the door. "If they cut my card off, I'll need you to let me in the office tomorrow." 

Major Sheppard cleared his throat. "Uh. So, where are they putting you if...?" 

"Back in the general labs, I suppose, or sharing space with Lee." Rodney grimaced, and added, "We undergo reorgs in a disgustingly regular basis, as if we didn't have enough to do down here. He's relatively good at what he does, but don't let him talk to you about Everquest." 

He pushed the button to open the door and it slid open. "Well, if you, um. Ever just need someplace to think for a minute, consider my door open to you. I guess." 

Huh. It was something to note, and he tucked that thought away. "Thanks. I'll keep that in mind. I hope your day wraps up we-- shoot, I'm late." Grant was probably waiting in the office instead of waiting outside. "Grant doesn't drive much, so we carpool." 

"See you around." There was a smile and a wave, and then Rodney was free to hurry on down to the elevator banks and try to head up to the surface as fast as possible. Grant preferred not to wait in boredom for Rodney, and he knew that the drive home was going to be as miserable as that drive home from their first day of work had been. 

Talking about insurance and wills had been about as much fun as a root canal. Talking about going offworld would probably be about the same, except it'd be the kind of root canal where the drugs wore off halfway through. 

* * *

> Mer was there. Mer was there, Mer was there, Mer was there, and that meant Mer wasn't dead. 
> 
> Mer wasn't dead, not dead, not dead, there, and the track was stuck, round and round in circles in his head. 
> 
> The sheets were white. They were white and soft and clean, and Grant couldn't remember having white sheets before, nor clean sheets, at least not in a long time. Not since, not that he, not since she, and Mer. 
> 
> And Mer. Mer was there. Mer was there beside the hospital bed, smoothing a thumb over his wrist, and Mer, Mer was smiling and his face was wet, but that didn't matter because it was, it was Mer, and Mer had come back for him, and he couldn't not, not touch the white soft sheets. 
> 
> "Meeeer," he said, and it came struggling out of his mouth, because they had, there were, he had lines. He had lines and lines and Mer, Mer, Mer, Mer. Mer said, Mer said the lines, the lines, they were good. Good lines. Good things. 
> 
> "Hey, Grant. It's good to see you. You're out, you're, I came back for you. I promised." He scooted his chair closer in to Grant's bed. 
> 
> "Meeeeer." Mer came. Mer came, not dead, not like she, she, she said. Not dead. Not dead, and when Mer came close, he scrabbled, scrabbled out his hand, dirty hand, dirty, not like clean Mer's. Dirty. Like Mother said. Dirty. 
> 
> Mer grabbed his hand, and he wanted to hum with happiness, touching Mer again, feeling Mer. "Hi. I came back for you. No one's going to take you away from me again, okay? We're going to be free and life's going to get better now, so much better." 
> 
> Better. 
> 
> "Meeeer," he said, and that said it all. Said. Said everything. 
> 
> Everything important. 
> 
> Everything important, ever. 
> 
> He felt Mer move, felt Mer lean, lay his head on the pillow. Better. So, so better.

* * *

> They had to take care of each other. 
> 
> They had to take care of each other, and Rodney wanted to do that, wanted to help drag Grant up to where he was. He wanted Grant to go to school, wanted Grant to do everything that Rodney had ever done, and he wasn't there, he wasn't, he wasn't allowed to yet because they had to stay in care, and he should've been grateful to stay with Grant, he should've. He missed school, though, and Grant was hard to handle, but someone had to do it and who else but his brother? 
> 
> But Rodney had a feeling that maybe they did things wrong, that they, that his own perspective of life was skewed more than he'd ever suspected, that there was more wrong with him than he'd ever thought. Rodney had thought he'd gotten out pretty okay. 
> 
> Apparently he hadn't. 
> 
> Miss Vicky had acted like she was upset when she caught them, like Rodney was doing something wrong, like Grant shouldn't have been enjoying it. Maybe that was something they weren't supposed to do, only nobody had told them. Nobody had told Rodney, and if Rodney didn't know, how could Grant know? 
> 
> "I, I, I think, I think, I think she's upset. I think, I think, what if, what if, what if she's like, like Mother?" Grant stuttered. "What if, wh-what, wh-what if-f..." 
> 
> His head hurt. 
> 
> Rodney crushed his eyes closed, and hugged Grant for a minute. "I'll, I'm going to go talk to her. I, I don't think she is, I just, this is a misunderstanding." Rodney had thought it was bedtime, and so had Grant and it, they just did that, he just reached down between them because Grant was hard and he was hard and they'd always done that. 
> 
> Always was, apparently, kind of screwed up. 
> 
> "I, I, I, I'm scared. Sc-scared, Mer." Grant's hands were clinging to him, as if Rodney might have answers, and he wished he did. He really wished he did. 
> 
> "Just, here, lay here and wait here," Rodney coaxed, shifting to try to get out of bed. He fished between the sheets for a minute before he found Kitty and pressed her into Grant's hand. "Here, just hang on and I'll be, I'll be right back, I promise." 
> 
> The hiccough that exploded out of Grant led to a moment of hysterical crying. "Mer, M-m-mer. Mer! I, I, I, I think, I, I, I... You..." 
> 
> He had one knee on the little bed that they were sharing, and leaned back in to Grant. "No, no, I'm just going to talk to her, I promise, I'm not leaving, we'll, we'll work this out. I keep my promises, don't I?" 
> 
> He wasn't sure Grant was really coherent enough to think about it, but then he nodded, a frantic, quick nod. "Uh-uh-uh-huh." 
> 
> Rodney smoothed a hand over Grant's hair. "Okay. Well, I promise I'll be back as soon as I've finished talking to her. I promise. So, you don't have to worry." 
> 
> The unsteady feeling of Grant nodding beneath his fingertips was something, anyway. He could feel Grant curl up, around Kitty, and so Rodney took a deep breath and stood up. Grant's breathing got heavier, closer to crying, and then Rodney knew he couldn't wait anymore. Not really. 
> 
> If he waited longer, he just wouldn't leave and he didn't know what the 'foster mom' out there was doing, but he needed to head her off or talk to her or see what was going on, because she'd yelled, startled, and Rodney knew that wasn't good. 
> 
> He slipped out of the room, and closed the door quietly behind him, looking around in the hallway. It was dark, still, but the light down the stairs was on, and he could hear something, could hear pots and water, could hear Miss Vicky downstairs. Hopefully she wasn't on the phone, calling somebody, calling the police, calling Mister Alex in from the hospital. 
> 
> Pots and water made him wonder, made him remember a scalding water incident or two, and that shot his heart rate up as he shakily started down the stairs. That just, that simply wasn't going to happen, except he kept thinking about it. Kept thinking about Mother, and the slosh of boiling water over his hands, and the agony that had lasted for the longest time. 
> 
> There was a rattle of cups, and Rodney snuck his way down to the bottom of the stairs and peered through the kitchen door. Miss Vicky was standing there, her hands moving, pouring water into cups. 
> 
> "Ma'am?" He was glad that he'd just hastily pulled his pajama pants back up, that their shirts hadn't gone anywhere, because it had meant that he could concentrate on calming Grant down more than dressing. "I, uh." 
> 
> "Why don't you come and have a seat." It wasn't so much a question as a request. "I'm guessing that Grant's still upstairs, then." 
> 
> "He didn't want me to leave." Whether she believed him or not was another story. He pulled the chair out, watching her carefully, watching her hands, trying to read her face. He sucked at it. He'd never been good at reading people, at figuring out what they meant, what to do with them, and this was even worse. 
> 
> Miss Vicky slipped one of the loose tea spoons into one cup, and reached for a box of cocoa from the cupboard. "I'm glad of that, at least," she said softly, and he could see her hands shaking now, could tell it. 
> 
> That wasn't good. Cocoa was good, but that, shaking hands, wasn't good. "I... I didn't know we were doing anything wrong. We always, it..." It was the only time that it didn't hurt, that it didn't feel bad or wrong, and now for that to be wrong, too? 
> 
> Grant was upstairs crying, but Rodney was pretty sure he was going to start down here. 
> 
> "Rodney. Rodney." Miss Vicky was there, and he felt like he wanted to run, and like he wanted to fling himself against her and cry until he was sick. "Oh, sweetie." Her arms were around his shoulders, gathering him close, and she was gentle. She wasn't doing anything bad to him. 
> 
> She wasn't doing anything bad with water and he didn't think she was going to kick him out and just keep Grant, and her arms were around his shoulder and he wasn't going to cry, he wasn't, except he was because if that was wrong, he didn't know what else was wrong about the foundation that he'd built his new life on. He didn't want Grant to be upstairs crying anymore than he wanted to be downstairs doing it, but it was there and miserable, knotted up in fear and worry and she really wasn't hurting him. "I'm sorry, we won't, I'm sorry, I don't want to lose him, he's all I have, we won't..." 
> 
> "Hush, sweetie. Shhh. Shhhh." And it wasn't that easy because he didn't cry, he never cried, he couldn't remember the last time he had cried, and now he was a mess, a snotty, hysterical mess. "It's okay. It's all right to let it out. It's all right. I promise, we'll work it out. It's all right." 
> 
> His chest hurt, and his face ached and he started to pull back, wiping at his eyes, trying to pull himself together. "I, I don't know what to do, and Grant, I'm supposed to know what to do, I always have, and now we're here." And things weren't in his control. Maybe they'd never been, and he just hadn't known it. 
> 
> Miss Vicky let him go, fumbled in her housecoat pocket, and pulled out a tissue. "Here. I know. I just... I wasn't aware of this, and now that I am, we'll need to talk about it." Talk about it with the therapist; probably talk about it with Miss Vicky, at least a little, so she understood. So she'd say it right when they had their therapist meeting and, and they wouldn't split them up or take Rodney away from Grant, even if maybe, maybe they should. 
> 
> He hadn't known! 
> 
> Rodney took the tissue when she handed it to him, and started to wipe at his face, blew his nose quickly. "I don't, I hate talking about it." Any of it, except if he pleaded his case to her, then she'd filter it and make it more sensible, which meant he had to talk about it. Whether he wanted to or not. 
> 
> She turned away discreetly, pouring boiling water into the cup with the tea spoon, and checking the pan on the back burner. As it turned out, there was milk there, and that went into the cup with the cocoa she'd made for him. Miss Vicky stirred a little, and waited, waited for him to tell her whatever he wanted to say. 
> 
> "I..." He sucked in a breath to steady himself. "We were just, we were masturbating. I didn't think anything of it, that was what Grant and I always did. It didn't, doesn't hurt. There wasn't any coercion involved, Mother wasn't there, she wasn't making us do things." He had no idea if that was a good explanation or not or if it was what she wanted to hear. 
> 
> Her shoulders shook, but when she turned with his cup, all he saw was a deep and abiding kindness, an gentleness, even if she didn't really, couldn't, understand. No one could, Rodney thought, but he took the cup and watched her fetch her own before they both sat at the kitchen table. "So. Something that developed between you, then, experimenting." She didn't sound like they were bad, like they were going to hell. 
> 
> "Yeah. Grant wanted, and because I, I was upstairs and he wasn't, and I wanted, I'd do anything for him." He sat back in the chair, and just curled his fingers around the cup. It was cobalt-colored, and the handle was narrow, enough for three fingers but not four. "I could, I 'earned' time to spend with him, and I took him books and tried to keep him up, and we did that. Sometimes. But I was only at school for a few months, just, hardly any time at all, and she told him I was dead and she made things worse while I was gone. He's scared and it's all new, having a bed, having, having food, having stuffed toys he missed, having anything he wants, and he wants to sleep with me because he's afraid I'm going to go away again, and...." 
> 
> Miss Vicky stirred her spoon slowly through her cup, the wafting scent of allspice tickling at his nose. "And that's something you've become accustomed to. You and Grant, out of a need for comfort." 
> 
> "I didn't think there was anything wrong with it. It, it didn't hurt. We weren't doing anything we didn't want to. We had to, we had to do enough of that, things we didn't want to." He took a sip at his cup, just a faint one, let the taste of chocolate filter into his mouth slowly. That was nice. "I'm sorry. It won't, we won't do that again. I'll explain it to Grant." 
> 
> "I was startled. I'm sorry if I startled you in return." Miss Vicky was ridiculously gentle, and he didn't like to think that he needed it, but he did. "I think you might want to talk about this with Dr. Macintosh when you see him on Wednesday." She sipped at her tea, finally. 
> 
> "How? I don't..." He shifted, squirming a little in the chair. "I don't know how to start. I don't know what other things we're doing that we shouldn't, I, I just realized that maybe my grasp of the way things are supposed to be isn't as great as I thought. How..." Did he even find out, when he didn't know? It wasn't cut and dry and it wasn't testable and scientific. There was no guidebook on interpreting reality. 
> 
> She touched his hand, and that was so kind, so unlike anything they'd known before, especially from Mother, that he caught himself on the verge of those hiccoughs again. "We'll work on that," Miss Vicky promised. "You and me. You can tell me anything, anything you need to, and we'll teach Grant about them. You'd be a very big help, Rodney, if that's all right. He trusts you, and he believes you when you tell him something. It would be beneficial to Grant and to me as we go along." 
> 
> Grant trusted him, and needed him, and sometimes Rodney wished he could be more help. "I don't know what there is to tell you." He and Grant had been slim on details to the social worker, because how exactly did one explain the sum of their lives in a few sessions where she looked at them and frowned? They were supposed to see a therapist, or a psychiatrist, or something, but whoever it was had been full-booked or something. 
> 
> Miss Vicky seemed to think about it for a moment. "Rodney, do you think it might be easier if you had a way to write things down? Easier than saying them aloud?" 
> 
> Oh, god, yes. Anything was easier than trying to say these things aloud, face to face. He didn't know if he could do that. His brain caught up just thinking about it, and talking about it? "Maybe." 
> 
> That seemed to please her, make her happy somehow. "Good. First thing tomorrow, then, why don't we have a little trip out? We'll go to the store and buy you a journal, and some pens that you like. Alex should be home to stay with Grant." Grant didn't go out yet. He seemed almost afraid of the outside, and Rodney couldn't blame him. "Would you like that?" 
> 
> "Yeah." He sipped at his cocoa. He could, maybe, write it all down, try to organize it that way. "Can we get Grant crayons? He likes making patterns." 
> 
> She smiled at him and nodded. "Of course we can. Biggest box we can find." Miss Vicky stood, her teacup in hand, and went back to the stove. She pulled down a second cup and began making more cocoa. "We'll get him a journal, too, I think. He likes to have things when you have them, doesn't he?" 
> 
> Because they hadn't. Not since they were little, and they barely remembered that. Grant would like it, though. 
> 
> "He'd like that." And maybe with time, experience would prove that Grant liked to have things when Rodney had them. 
> 
> Maybe Grant wanted a cup of cocoa.

* * *

> "Grant, honey. It's Miss Vicky..." 
> 
> Oh. Oh, oh, oh, he didn't want, didn't want to see her. She'd seen them doing, doing what they did. It was, wasn't bad. It was just, it was how they, how he and Mer, how they were. 
> 
> Grant squeaked damply and tugged the covers over his head. 
> 
> He could hear her come in, heard her get closer. "Grant, I just want to talk to you. It's all right. Rodney's downstairs making up a cup of cocoa." 
> 
> It would be better if Mer was, was with him. Was upstairs. "Wa-wa, I wa, I want Mer," Grant demanded, and he sounded like a great big baby. Mother had always said he was, had sworn, and, and that made it harder to stop. Because he didn't want to think of her and he was scared stiff, clutching Kitty close. 
> 
> "Okay. He'll be up with your cocoa soon," she said, and her voice got quieter. "You're not in trouble, Grant. Do you and your brother do that often?" 
> 
> Not often. Not often, no, because, because Mother. Mother, Mother would have put a stop to it. Only for Mother, those things were, and bad things happened if they couldn't, didn't, had no... "Wh-wh-wh-when we're, when w-we're, alone. Me. Me and M-Mer. Becau-because 's nice. N-nice, with no, no, no Mother." 
> 
> "Okay." She was quiet, and then she reached down, gently, and petted at his hair. Grant hadn't realized it was still poking out of the covers. "Do you want to come downstairs for cocoa, or do you want Rodney to come up?" 
> 
> Yes. Yes, yes, he wanted Mer, wanted Mer to come up and, and say, to tell him it was okay. "Y-yes. Yes, ma-ma'am." 
> 
> "Okay. I'll make sure he comes up soon," she said, and then she was leaving. Just leaving, just going, no pain, nothing, nothing bad. Not bad. 
> 
> It was creepy. Really horribly creepy, because, because that? That didn't happen. Never. Not ever. He was just beginning to contemplate crawling under the bed when he heard footsteps, and his heart stopped in his throat. What if she was, what if, if she came back? What if it was a hoax, a trick? Just to get him, just to get him, he didn't know, right where she wanted him? 
> 
> But when the door opened again, it was Mer. "I come bearing drinks." 
> 
> Grant made the effort to stick his head out of the covers, and okay. Okay, yes. Yes. That was. "Mer. Mer, Mer, I was, she asked, I wanted, but I said... I don't know," he finally confessed miserably. "Because, because, it was, it was, us, and good, and not, not, her." 
> 
> There was a beat of silence, and maybe more, maybe? Then Mer said, "Yeah, I told her the same thing, too. And I have cocoa for you." He moved, knelt on the bed, held out a mug. "We're not supposed to spill it." 
> 
> Scrubbing a hand over his face, Grant squirmed so that he was sitting and took the cocoa, sniffing hard again. "I just, I just, just wanted...." Comfort. Wanted, wanted Mer, and then to sleep. Why was that bad? 
> 
> "I know. I know. We, we shouldn't do that together anymore is all. It's..." Mer shifted to sit beside him. "We're not normal people." 
> 
> Not normal...? "Wh-wh... I don't, that, I, but we've always!" Protest was all he could do, because they had. Had always. Touched. Sucked one another's thumbs. It was.... it was just, they were interchangeable like that. It was... Grant sipped his cocoa to hide the fact that his mouth was quivering. 
> 
> "No, but that's okay. I mean, we, we're better than normal in a lot of ways. We just can't. Brothers shouldn't... have sex together. Family shouldn't. Mom, Mom shouldn't have, have done what she did, any of it." 
> 
> Well, of course. That was, it was stupid not to realize that Mother shouldn't have, but Mother was Mother, and Mother was wrong, and Mer and Grant were... they were not. They were, it was just, it was like doing it himself. Touching. They were... They were the same. 
> 
> They were Mer and Grant, and that made them the same. 
> 
> "N, no. No, no, Mother, no, but us, we're, it's not... it's not like that," he mumbled. 
> 
> "I know." Mer shifted, close, shoulder to shoulder to shoulder, because they were the same, and he was clutching at his mug as much as Grant was. "I know. I know. But the social worker doesn't. She might take me away, if we do that." 
> 
> Grant hated her, hated her for that, hated her because she came and wanted them to talk to her, and he wouldn't. Not ever. "Mer..." His eyes were dripping again, and he fumbled his mug a little. Mer took it from him, and he hid his face against him. 
> 
> "It's okay. She won't take me away, and we'll just, we'll just still be us, is all." And Mer was hugging him, holding him close. "It's okay." 
> 
> Except it wasn't. Not really, because, because if he couldn't touch Mer, if they couldn't, couldn't share space and be the same, then what did they have?

* * *

> Bill, junk mail, bill, insurance card, letter from their doctor, letter.... 
> 
> Letter from Mother. 
> 
> Rodney never understood how it happened, but wherever they went, Mother inevitably managed to locate them. The letters always came, and he never knew what to make of that. Stay? Go? Change their names? 
> 
> They'd never relocated because of the letters -- she wasn't going to get out anytime soon, and she'd been given a lifetime sentence, with twenty-five years before she had a slight, faint shot at parole, and Rodney suspected that the multiple kidnapping, imprisonment, sodomy charges, never mind doing horrible things to a corpse, would keep parole from happening. He didn't think the National Parole Board would buy any attempts for her to say she could be an attribute for society. 
> 
> She'd had her chance, she'd fucked it up. And more than a few of theirs. 
> 
> Mostly, Rodney wished that the letters didn't seem to always arrive on otherwise good days. It had been quiet at work all week, and he and Grant had done lunch out at a nice restaurant before catching a matinee showing of Toy Story. There'd been a lot of kids, of course, but Grant had loved it. Rodney had, too, because what was there not to love about a movie full of toys? 
> 
> "Rodney?" Grant frowned at him from the kitchen. "You, you, you don't look so good." 
> 
> Of course he didn't look so good. Mother had found them again, and that meant the letters would start coming more frequently, until Rodney just pulled out the coalscuttle and leave it by the door. He'd take it out every couple of weeks, soak them down in lighter fluid, and toss in a match. 
> 
> It was sort of... soothing, Rodney figured. Oh, he'd call up there and tell the prison that she was harassing them, which would tack a few more years onto the concurrent sentence that was running on top of her life sentence. "Nothing, Grant. It's nothing." 
> 
> Even though it actually was, and Grant was giving him that look, the one that said he knew Rodney was lying to him in a great big lying liar sort of way. He always knew. "I'll, I'll go make some, I'll make cocoa. Okay?" Cocoa was soothing, a learned response from years ago, and they both had as a leftever from their years with the Ormistons. Letters from Miss Vicky came a lot less often then letters from Mother, but they were much more welcome. 
> 
> They didn't get burned, they were passed to Grant and Grant kept them and wrote back, so... "Yeah, okay. It's time for me to get the coalscuttle out, is all. You know." He glanced down at the envelope. There was no question that he'd at least read the first one, because there was nothing he loved more than setting back the progress he'd made. 
> 
> He just... he had to know. Know if she was still completely bugfuck crazy or if maybe she was making progress, actually paying attention to the therapists he knew they made her see. It hadn't happened yet, but Rodney kept hoping. Just a little. He couldn't seem to help himself. 
> 
> It was sick of him to have that hope against hope, because even if she made progress would he ever forgive her? Not likely. Still, he slid his finger under the flap, and broke it at the top with quick motions, pulling out the letter and flipped it open, stomach swelling up and rising unpleasantly in preparation for what might be written there. 
> 
> _'My dearest darling boys,'_ it began, and he shouldn't read any further. He knew he shouldn't. He just couldn't seem to help himself. _'How I've missed you! My letters have been returning from your previous address, which leads me to believe that you have once again moved. I hope it isn't to avoid me.'_
> 
> It actually wasn't. It was because Rodney had wanted to actually live in a house, and they'd been living there for two years already. Apartment life was cramped, and Grant liked there being a garden and what passed for wildlife out there and a birdfeeder that he swore was for the benefit of the cats. Rodney knew that Grant liked having it as much as Peanut Butter and Jelly did, although he hadn't seen Peanut Butter or Grant hanging from the curtains. 
> 
> _'It's been so long since I've seen my boys, run my hands through their sweet golden curls. You still have your curls, don't you, Meredith? You've not let my darling Marion cut his away, have you?'_
> 
> Sweet golden curls. Rodney closed his eyes for a moment, desperately glad that his hair was brown now, and that they were both shaggy men who didn't bother shaving all the time. It was funny that Grant's beard was less spotty than his own was. 
> 
> She went on after that, nothing he paid very much attention to because he'd probably be completely fucked up by the time he got to the end of it. It was better to stop, to crumple the letter up in his fist and head towards the kitchen and the garbage disposal. 
> 
> Grant was waiting for him, stirring a mug of cocoa. "Mother again," he said, and of course he knew. 
> 
> He ran water, and stuffed it down into the disposal, sure that his hand was well and clear before he flipped the switch to chew up the paper. "Yes. I wonder how she keeps finding us." 
> 
> "I, I, I don't know. It's, she's not..." Grant shrugged. There wasn't any explanation. Not a good one, anyway. Jeannie didn't have anything to do with her, and their stepfather didn't have any idea where they were. He'd made some efforts with them, but the whole thing had been kind of a disaster. Considering. 
> 
> Considering. Most of it came down to Rodney wanting to know how fucking stupid the man had been not to notice, not to be suspicious, and he just couldn't trust. It was easier to relate just to Jeannie. "A good person, Grant. She's not a good person. It just means she's going to start mailing us again." She probably masturbated to thoughts of them, and that was a wrench in his gut. He didn't say it, because he didn't want Grant to think about it. 
> 
> Grant looked at him, and nodded, slowly. He'd probably get twitchy in a couple of days, and Rodney would have to be extra certain he remembered his meds. It was always that way when Mother's letters showed up again. "O-o-okay. I'll, I'll get the sc-scuttle." The stuttering got worse then, too, and it made Rodney want to do something, hit back at her, yell at the prison for letting the letters even go out. He had no idea how she worked around that. 
> 
> She probably had her lawyer re-mail them or something, and that was, that was fucking stupid, and he was going to do something about it this time. "Grant? It's all right. She can't get us. She's never getting out of that place. You know that, right?" 
> 
> He nodded, cupped his hand around his own mug. "I, I, I know." Of course he did, because he wasn't stupid. It was just difficult for both of them when this started again. 
> 
> Rodney shifted, hooked a foot around the barstool at the kitchen, and sat down. "Sometimes just saying that helps make me feel better," Rodney murmured. Then he twisted around, making a tsking sound that usually got Peanut Butter up and running to jump on the kitchen island. It was as reliable as usual, because a second later, the cat came trotting up and pounced onto the island, under Rodney's expectant hand. 
> 
> Grant laid down his cup and moved around the island, sliding his arms around Rodney's shoulders and hugging him tightly. "I know," he said again, and laid his head against Rodney's gently. "I know." 
> 
> That felt good, just being close to Grant, having that immediate understanding. "She'll never get parolled, and she'll probably eventually get a Hepatitis, but it doesn't..." It fixed nothing. He'd watched her bury their father's corpse, with dawning horror, they'd spent their formative years in a basement, they'd spent their teenage years, the free ones, in therapy, and their lives were just all fucked up. And she was in a cell fantasizing about how she missed them, and how the sex was. 
> 
> "Don't, don't think about it." Grant was petting him, gentle and slow. "Don't think about it, Mer. It, it, it's better. Better if you don't." 
> 
> "I can't not think about it," Rodney sighed. "I can't just shut off my mind. I'll, oh, hey, don't chew on those fingers. I need those fingers." Peanut Butter was gnawing with back teeth on the edge of his pinkie, and pulling his hand away yielded a head that dipped low, demanding to be petted. "But, at the end of the day. We're lucky. We're here. We've got a house and good jobs and money, and cats, and... us." 
> 
> Them, and okay, sometimes it was frustrating, and crazy-making. Sometimes, Grant went off the deep end for a day or two, and they took sick days. Sometimes, Rodney did. When all was said and done, though, they were okay. They were doing well. 
> 
> And Mother would never, ever have that part of them, or any part anymore. Not a letter, not a call, not an acknowledgement that she was still alive, nothing, nada, zip. He'd filled out the Information Request form for Victims, because she'd been in jail for eleven years now, but the Faint Hope Clause wouldn't even be something to worry about for another four years, and when the time got closer, he'd fill out the Request to Present a Victim Statement At a Hearing. 
> 
> Mostly, it didn't bear thinking on. Rodney closed his eyes and sipped at his cocoa. "Thanks." 
> 
> "Welcome," Grant said, and moved to brush at him with his shoulder. "Sorry. About, about, about Mother. The letters." Grant never read them, but Grant didn't seem to have quite the same urge to completely undermine eleven years worth of serious in-depth therapy that Rodney did. 
> 
> "Not your fault," Rodney sighed, while Peanut Butter nudged against his forearm. "We made it. We made it all on our own." 
> 
> "Because, 'cause of you," Grant told him, and let his mouth curl, mustache bunching a little. "'cause you're pretty brave, Mer." He hardly ever called Rodney that any more. The letters from Mother usually brought it on now. 
> 
> "I should've come for you sooner. Should've..." Rodney shrugged, and he was twisted around at the neck, straining, to keep looking at Grant until he nudged at his barstool so Grant might sit down. 
> 
> "Not, there wasn't any way, Mer." And there hadn't been, but he'd always believed he should have. Rodney felt guilty for so many reasons. "I, I, it wouldn't have, there wasn't any way. M-mother was... it was too much. If you hadn't, hadn't gone, then she, she, you would never have... no way she would pay, stop paying, attention. So we could, you know. Get away." Grant didn't sit down; instead, he wandered towards the refrigerator and began pulling things out of it for making sandwiches. 
> 
> Rodney twisted on the stool, watching Grant, letting him move around in the kitchen. Grant liked to pan-fry sandwiches instead of using the toaster, but he never cleaned up after himself when he did. Not that that mattered -- when a bologna and cheese sandwich tasted that good, he could clean the pan out, crusted bits and all. "Want any help?" Peanut Butter moved to the middle of the Island, grooming himself. 
> 
> "'s okay." Grant was pulling everything out, and there'd be a hell of a mess, and Rodney didn't care. Comfort food should be extremely bad for the person eating it. That was what made it comfort food. "See where Jelly went instead." 
> 
> "Right." He kept his mug in hand, because Peanut Butter was liable to stick a paw in it and flick it all over the countertop, with Grant none the wiser. He slipped off of the stool, and peeked into the living room. They had a scratching post at the end of the bed in Rodney's room, and she was maybe passed out there, mouse dangling over her head on a spring. 
> 
> He'd go, spend a little time snuggling with their cats, and come back to the kitchen when Grant called. They'd have supper, and not think about Mother, and go to work tomorrow. They'd come home to another letter, and eventually the scuttle would fill, and they'd burn all of them. 
> 
> But Rodney didn't have to read any more of them. Just the first, and that was over now.

* * *

Rodney McKay was working in the same place he was, and he was taking over the guy's office. 

It was strange enough, moving again, settling into a new place, a new working complex. He'd felt jumpy, burnt out since 'peacekeeping' Bosnia, and this was supposed to be a better use for his 'skills'. It just felt surreal, all of it, from the culture of the area and the contrasts of military base, the academy out in town, and the city itself. John didn't know what to think of any of it. Especially the part where he was leading a team of people who'd be going offworld. 

When they'd first offered the position to him, he'd been pretty sure that the general had cracked like a bad egg under pressure. John still wasn't a hundred percent certain that everybody here wasn't some special kind of crazy, but hey. What did he know? 

They swore that that thing in the gateroom wasn't decorative, and they went to a hell of a lot of trouble, but he hadn't yet seen anything more extraordinary than Rodney McKay, covered in dust. 

He really hadn't expected to meet the guy ever again, let alone all grown up and snapping out of the gates. He'd never expected to see either of them, and that was just weird. Weird and significant, in a way. The McKays seemed to show up whenever his life was due some kind of change. 

The last time, he'd decided that he couldn't finish his business degree and then go on to be a businessman because it wasn't deep down personally satisfying the way working with the Auxiliary Police had been. The whole 'I want to attend business school in Canada' had been a way to stick it to his father and to place distance between them in the same fell swoop. After that night, that week, police work hadn't seemed right for him, either, but he was ever so slightly more certain that he wanted to stay associated with Canada. 

It hadn't been a hell of a mental leap to getting really involved. There were so many possibilities he could pursue, things he would have been good at. Hell, he could have spent time with just about any volunteer organization who'd take him, CUSO or something similar, some place he'd actually be doing something helpful. The McKays had been a sign that helping on such a close personal level as the Auxiliary Police wasn't really for him. It had hurt, helping them, seeing the tragedy of them. Wondering if he'd helped or if nothing he could have done would help, so he'd decided to try another venue. 

A broader venue that was hands on, but less hands on at the same time, because he liked that feeling of contributing. He liked that over the idea of working in his father's company, looking for the next way to weasel a dollar out of the public at large. 

But this was getting on the ground floor of not a small business startup, but a scientific-military expedition. This was something so far from the path he'd stumbled along, picked up piece by piece. He wasn't even sure what had made them chose him out of all of the officers they'd had to choose from. He'd never tried to stick his head out except when he'd been doing search and rescue. 

John had never been inclined to leave a man behind. Sometimes, he thought he'd learned that watching Rodney McKay go back for his brother, because it had been stunning. John wasn't sure that when he was sixteen, he'd have gone back to a place like that, in the kind of head state that kid had to have been in, and broken in to get his brother out. When John was sixteen, he wouldn't have pissed on his brother if he were on fire. 

He was pretty sure it went both ways. 

The beep of his watch caught John's attention, and he hurriedly stood and ruffled himself straight. He had a meeting at eighteen hundred to talk with a General Hammond and one of the other SG teams. 

Stargates. Seriously. These people were crazy enough that they thought they were going to other worlds. If he didn't know that the American military didn't make jokes, he'd think it was some elaborate prank on the entire Canadian military complex. 

It was just more effort than he'd actually credit Americans for. Of course, none of them had believed the names that Canada gave their foreign bases, so maybe his guess that it was a hoax was too much of an imaginational stretch for the American Military. 

But it was six p.m., and after the meeting he could go home and get his head around that meeting with McKay. Hopefully, McKay would decide to go on his team -- but if he decided not to, John at least understood why. Grant was a pretty sweet guy, and he'd come a hell of a long way, considering what John had learned when he followed the trial in the news. 

It had been a mess. Ugly hadn't even been the word for it. Their mother was some kind of big wig chemist who'd killed her husband, moved, buried the guy in the basement, and then locked up two three year old twins down there with the rotting corpse. She'd remarried a man who gave new meaning to the world oblivious, because how could a guy not know his wife had locked up her kids downstairs for bizarre sexually, physically, emotionally abusive purposes? John liked to think he'd at least ask where the money was going, because obviously they'd been fed at least enough to keep living. He knew they'd been fed, because the news said the older twin had been moved upstairs after an allergic reaction to something, with the excuse that his father didn't want him anymore. 

And then he'd managed to eventually get away, come back and hey. Hey, he was back, back in John's life again as more than a story to stare at in the news. Grant had been exceedingly friendly and willing to tell him where to get the good things that reminded him of his adoptive home. He at least had someone to eat lunch with when the opportunity arose, John decided, while he walked the green line to the meeting room, and let himself in. He almost immediately froze, because there were several people staring at him, and he knew he wasn't late. His watch alarm had been set ten minutes early. 

"Major Sheppard." The last time John had heard an accent like that, it had been an oilman sucking down whiskey in his father's study. "Come in. Have a seat." 

"Thank you, sir." John tossed out a tight smile, still unsure how to play himself with them, and it was strange to think of the Americans as foreign creatures except, yeah. He'd had years of working with fantastic people. Sure, he'd worked with dicks, but he was going to miss Anderson, Jones and McNichols like lost limbs. They were okay with their laid back Major, but he couldn't be that laid back when he was meeting with the General of the Base. 

At least, until he forgot that this wasn't his territory. So. That'd be... tomorrow? 

"I'd like to introduce you to a few experienced folks who can answer any questions you may have when we're done here. This is Colonel Jack O'Neill, Major Samantha Carter, Doctor Daniel Jackson, and Teal'c." 

Who Teal'c was supposed to be seemed pretty unclear, considering he had a great big fat gold piece stuck to his head. John really wished somebody had thought to debrief him about this thing a little further. "Colonel," John greeted. "Major. Doctor. Uh... Teal'c." 

Teal'c just inclined his head, smiling like he was a friendly enough sort, decorative gold piece on his head and all. 

"The longer we've been working on this project, the more obvious it is that including some of our allies from the north would be a good idea. Your specialty was search and rescue, Major Sheppard, but you weren't selected entirely for that. Your record indicates that you've participated in some dangerous missions without losing a man." 

"Yes, sir," John replied, and standing there, back straight, was going to be a pain in the ass. "I don't believe in leaving my men behind, sir." Or anybody else. If a skinny sixteen year old had lived through what Rodney McKay had and still gone back to pull his brother out, nobody had any excuses for leaving someone behind. 

"I like the kid already," Colonel O'Neill said, elbowing Major Carter. "Can we keep him? I promise to keep the water bowl full and everything." 

And Doctor Daniel Jackson exhaled and looked half-ashamed, rubbing at his temples. "Oka-ay." 

General Hammond cleared his throat. "We'd like you to lead SG-4. Your main mission would be exploratory, operating to find new technologies and resources for us. Colonel O'Neill, Major Carter, Doctor Jackson and Teal'c are SG-1 -- they perform most of our first contact missions. There are nine gate teams, each with missions which we hope will ultimately benefit all countries on Earth." 

Missions and Earth, and maybe they were serious about the other worlds thing. He was pretty sure Colonel O'Neill might be on crack, though, all things considered, but that Teal'c guy looked like he might be an alien, maybe. If aliens looked like humans, and before he thought about it, John said, "Somebody really needs to explain this thing to me." 

"Decades ago, we discovered a gate, and yes, that gate does take us to other planets. Unfortunately, we realized how... threatening other species in the universe are, in particular the Goa'uld, a species who had originally taken humans and seeded them throughout the galaxy to become slave races. Some of these humans are still completely subjugated, and some of them are hundreds of years ahead of us in terms of cultural and scientific advances. The Jaffa, for example, are genetically different from us, but began just as human as you or I." And he gestured towards Teal'c. "Teal'c's lifespan is much longer than ours, and he carries a symbiote within him that will eventually become a Goa'uld. These Goa'uld take a host when they're mature, and bury themselves around the spinal cord of its victim, taking control of its body." 

"Blah blah blah." O'Neill looked bored, bored and distracted. "Look, we're in the middle of an intergalactic war. These Goa'uld have been at it for so long that they forgot that us first-humans or whatever they called us existed, except we stepped out of the gate a couple of times and they realized we're still here and a threat. We shut down the program, we all die anyway. We keep the program going, we make new friends, find new weaponry, don't end up conquered by a snake-critter that thinks it's a god, and find new people we can sell girl scout cookies to." 

John didn't know what to say to that, mostly because all he could see at the moment was himself, wearing a green sash, trying to sell cookies to aliens. Great. At least he'd fit in with what was obviously an unreal level of crazy. 

"Ah, Major? I think it's unfair to let Jack explain things. Try to pretend he's not actually talking. That helps me," Dr. Jackson said. "Look, there's more to it than that. It's...." 

"I meant it as a, as a, uh. Metaphor," Jack cut in, leaning hard on the desk with his elbows. "It's a metaphor. We shop democracy and the idea that being held against your will is bad. You'd be amazed how new and shiny this seems to most people we've run into." 

These people were obviously all smoking the very good drugs. There was no other explanation for this meeting. "Uh. Yes, sir." Except not so much, no. 

Not at all. 

Major Carter was smiling at him, and tilted her head slightly before she looked at the general. "I think he's skeptical, sir. Be honest, Major. You think we're all crazy." Yes, and that it was revenge for making Americans look for bases named Canada Dry. 

"All due respect, ma'am, I think you're all on drugs and crazy," John admitted, shrugging. 

"Look, just take the position, say yes, and then we can prove it to you," the more than slightly crazy Colonel offered. "We'll stick you down in the labs for a day tomorrow and we can have, Carter, who've we got down there? Get someone to get the skeptic onboard. You're a good guy, Sheppard, and you're just what we need. And when I say 'we', I mean the rest of the team that's going to be formed and the other teams that might require you and your men to pull their asses out of the fire." 

Well, he'd already accepted the position, sight unseen. It's just that he had kind of figured his own commanding officers were crazy... or that there was something going on that he wasn't actually supposed to know about, with a story like that. "I've already accepted, sir. If I can speak freely?" 

"Of course, son." For a general, the guy was pretty laid back seeming, and nice enough. That was something, anyway. "Whatever you'd like to know." 

Well. There were a hell of a lot of things he'd like to know. "All things considered, ah. Perhaps Dr. McKay could show me around?" Fellow countryman, after all. Plus, he could hopefully get to know the guy, work on persuading him to stay and be on John's team. Since they were going to give him one and all. 

"Oh, you've met him?" Carter seemed a little surprised. "I've actually approached him about being on a team, and I think I can clear his workload for tomorrow to do that." 

"Is that the... Jackson, which egghead is that?" And Colonel O'Neill was the head of one of the teams? Maybe he was something else in action, or it was all his way of dealing with the insanity of what they were putting out there. 

"He builds generators to spec with Naquadah, Jack. And bits of anything else we need." 

"Oh, right, got in the fight with Carter about her welding -- okay, right, him. You have fun with that, Sheppard." 

John figured he'd probably do okay with that. At least he knew McKay, kind of got an idea of where he was coming from, anyway. That was more than he had with these people, who were all just a little crazy. Or maybe even a lot. "Yes, sir. I hope so, sir." 

"That being decided, Major, we'll adjourn today's meeting. Let you get settled in a little more before we start to deluge you with details," General Hammond said, and stood. 

That was a dismissal, but the Colonel was standing up, and heading towards him, and the rest of his team looked happy to get out of there. Guy with the gold stamp on his head included. "Sheppard, can I speak to you for a minute, officer-e-officer?" 

What was he supposed to say to that? It wasn't like no was exactly an option. "Yes, sir." 

They lingered behind in the conference room, and the general bade them good night one more time. 

"I know you're thinking that this shit's crazy and that I'm crazy and that General Hammond is crazy, and I don't often get to say this, but we're not crazy. You need to kick your inner skeptic to the side, because we deal in some amazing things with this project. Mostly, your scientist on your team is going to interpret things for you -- you just get them all home safe, okay, Sheppard? That's your concern at the end of the day. Get them all back safe. If you get some good technology, if you get a lucky break and get us a good treaty, okay, but don't do it at the expensive of your team. We've lost enough people around here." 

It put John's back up, made his jaw clench. Who the fuck did this crazy asshole think he was, anyway? His record spoke for itself. He shouldn't need to reiterate the fact that he didn't leave men behind. "I don't plan on losing anybody, Colonel. And I don't ever leave anybody behind." 

"Good. Good. We've had a couple..." The man shrugged his shoulders. "We've lost a lot of people. You just watch out for your team first. You have any other concerns, or?" 

"No, sir." None except for the fact that asshole was now tacked on to crazy. "Nothing that can't be addressed at a later date." 

"Good. Dismissed. I expect you back here at 0800, and you'll shadow McKay." The man drew up straight-backed, and saluted John. 

What the hell. He saluted back. 

Obviously he needed to go back to his new mostly empty apartment and have a beer. It was the only way to end a crazy-ass day like this one. 

* * *

Grant had probably already figured it out from the fact that dinner was 'treatish'. Sure it was lasagna, but it was lasagna that was fresh and he'd put together a salad to go with it, and fresh bread from the store down the road, so Grant's hackles had to be up already. 

And if they weren't, he was giving his brother entirely too much credit and was indulging in his own paranoia. 

Except the house was quiet and comfortable and he hated to disrupt that. Peanut Butter and Jelly were actually eating dinner from their own bowls, no brawls, no coaxing Jelly. And what would he do about the cats when he was offworld? What would he do about Grant when he was offworld? What would Grant do about Grant when he was offworld? What if something happened to him? What if he came in through the gate one day as one of those dead or injured? 

Then Jeannie would come down, and Grant probably wouldn't stand it for long if Rodney was really gone, and that was a miserable thought. Of course, he could get hit by a car tomorrow and Grant would be left just as alone, just as miserable and sad, but it wouldn't have been from a choice Rodney had contributed to. He wouldn't be left a ghost with guilt. 

"They want me to join a gate team, Grant," Rodney finally suggested, over and through the background noise of TV from the living room, and small talk about the day and the cement that Rodney had washed off of himself while dinner heated in the oven. "I, I put off making a decision. Because of you, because of, well, us." He waved a fork at the ceiling, encompassing the entirety of the house. Their crazy co-dependent life that was better than anything Rodney had ever fantastically dreamed of. "It didn't feel right to just say one way or the other without talking to you about it." 

Like he would if he was dating somebody. Well, somebody who knew about the Stargate, anyway. It was kind of creepy, and yet an absolute necessity. Oh, well. 

Grant seemed to consider the matter, fork full of lasagna. He looked at Rodney over it, and the purse of his mouth underneath his mustache made Rodney squirm guiltily. "You, you, they made you sign a power of attorney already, and, and update your will. Is it, would it be...? That much more, more dangerous? How much?" 

"If something happened to the gate, I might be stuck on the other side for a while is the only thing I can think of. Just a while, though. A few days. It's not more dangerous than working there in the first place, it's just more... inconvenient," Rodney decided. After that one quarantine lockdown, he'd figured out that leaving Grant with a stash supply of his meds at work was a good idea. It was just anticipating things like that that was the problem. 

"Who, who'd be, you'd be going with somebody. Not Major Carter," Grant decided, "because, because they all seem to, to think she's smarter than anybody. So, so they wouldn't think she'd need you." Even though they were wrong, wrong, wrong. 

They asked for him to work on their projects enough when things got hot, so eventually they'd catch on to who was smarter. He pulled up a smile, while he washed off lettuce. "We've got a new guy who wants me to join his team. Apparently, you ate lunch with him? Major John Sheppard." 

The near comical rounding of Grant's eyes almost made Rodney smile. Almost. There was something furtive there, too, though, and Rodney was pretty sure that couldn't be a good sign. "Major Sheppard? Um. Yes?" 

"He wants me to be on his team. Carter mentioned him to me, and she must have mentioned me to him, or else... you did?" That was a gently pointed question, because maybe this was Grant's new tactic of bringing someone home? Maybe. It was hard to tell. The last one back in Area 51 had been pretty subtle for Grant, but not a good long-term idea. Army men who'd taken too many hits to the head were just never a good idea. 

Plus, while Rodney had grown accustomed to the idea that sometimes people really were actually born stupid, he still hadn't gotten good at being kind about it. That was kind of a fail in most relationships. 

"Well, he, I, I thought, I remembered him. And we, there was lunch, and and he's Canadian. Or, well, actually, not. But! American and emigrated. Which clearly, clearly indicates that he's, that Major Sheppard is a man of, of discerning good taste." 

"He was the auxiliary officer that night we got out." And that bothered him, but hopefully Sheppard wouldn't shop that around. People just didn't know that at work, and Rodney preferred it to be quiet. He preferred just to be half of a weird pair of twins in the midst of an extremely weird project. "So. I, uh. Probably need some kind of answer about whether I will or won't be joining a gate team." 

Grant shoved his forkful of lasagna into his mouth and chewed rapidly, as if that would somehow prevent him from having to answer that question. Rodney wasn't about to let him out of anything that easy, though, so he waited patiently until his brother had swallowed. "I. I, could I talk with him? With the other... you know. People? Before. Before. Because if, if you're doing dangerous things, I want... I need to know...." 

"Sure. Yeah." He stuck some lettuce and some of the pre-sliced carrot bits on Grant's plate, wedged it in there beside the lasagna before he did the same to his own plate and finally sat down. "I'm sure that Major Sheppard would talk to you about it, but I don't think he knows more than I do about the project at this point." 

"I don't, don't need to know. About the project." Grant looked up at him, all sincerity and affection. "I, I need to know he'll protect you. Won't, won't leave you. Ever. Behind." 

It was that earnestness and love that left Rodney asking Grant for permission to go ahead and say yes. One of Rodney's therapists had once-upon-a-time said that he and Grant were so close because they'd never experienced unconditional love except for themselves. Well, yes, probably. But they did love each other, so Rodney wasn't sure what the actual problem was if he was considerate of his brother when he remembered to be considerate. "Okay. Ask him about it and when you come to a decision, I'll give them a yes or a no. But it'll probably have to be this week." He stuffed some of the lasagna in his own mouth, and exhaled. 

That was damn good pre-made lasagna. 

Grant fidgeted. "Okay. We'll, I'll, if he doesn't show up in the cafeteria...." Upstairs, anyway. "You, you'll have to send him. Because I can't, they think..." They were wrong about that. But that was all right. The day would come when they needed Grant and Rodney, and they'd learn better. 

It was inevitable. The fact that Lee was still playing with small pieces of Grant's simulation program said it all. "I will." Rodney leaned, nudged Grant with his shoulder because it was familiar. "Do you want to watch a movie on TV tonight? I don't think there's any good shows on tonight." 

"We could, how about, can we watch _Last Starfighter_?" Grant asked, hopeful. Obviously now seemed like a good time. 

That was using Rodney's weak spots against him, because most of the time, Rodney would rather saw off his wrists than watch that. He let his teeth click on the fork for a moment, and then he nodded. "Oh, that's just cruel of you. Yes, yes, we will, we'll watch it." And he'd snark about the special effects, but it was possibly so bad that it was good, and Grant liked it. 

The sneaky grin he got said as much as anything that Grant knew how he felt about it, too. "Good. I like it." The graphics, the sci-fi of it, all of the truly horrible bits and pieces. The android that replaced the human seemed to make him especially happy. 

"Hmph, I should withhold dessert from you," Rodney mused, twisting a little to check on how the cats were wile he dutifully stuffed bits of salad in his mouth. They were supposed to eat a balanced diet, and on the whole, they still did pretty well. 

"But you won't." His brother was god-awful smug, but then, he always was when Rodney agreed to watch _Last Starfighter_. "I, I'm betting it's something good, too." Which was pretty logical, really. 

Rodney tended to butter Grant up for stressful questions, had for years, and using food to soothe down stress was probably the least-bad habit that they had between them. "It might or might not be cake." 

"But it might be ice cream," Grant replied, and it could well be. "I, I like Major Sheppard." He peeked at Rodney from beneath his lashes. "He'd, I think he'd take care of you. Offworld. You know." 

While he appreciated the sentiment, he didn't need to be taken care of. He'd always been independent, desperate to do things his way and make it. "Hopefully he's a good shot. If he is, I think I'd be just fine. And there'll be other people on the team." 

"So long as it's not, not Kavanagh." Even IT wanted to take the man out and have him shot. How could that not be a sign? 

Rodney figured it was a sign, and so was the fact that he was a chemist. A doddering, blithering waste of space who wanted to talk about the procedures to doing his research more than his research. "No, they'll probably need someone for translations, at the most, so I'm safe there." 

"If you could take anybody with you...." Grant looked at him. "Anybody not, not me. Because of the...." Yeah. "Who? Who would you want to...?" 

"Through the gate?" It left Rodney trying to think it over, and he wasted a moment or two to get some of the last of his lasagna down, slippery warm pasta and Ricotta cheese. "I don't know. I've never -- I mean, there's a couple of the military guys who're all right, but most of the science department isn't anyone I'd want watching my back unless we were all running to the gate and that's just because I think I could outrun the other scientists." 

"Then I think you should, you and Major Sheppard, you should talk about it. About that. And make sure that, you know. You only, that you just don't, that he's not... that they're not choosing somebody you don't want. For the team. Because if you're not, if you don't feel safe..." Grant shrugged. "Then it's not, I don't think it's a good idea. Not then." 

Grant had probably done more thinking about the whole upcoming debacle than Rodney had. 

"Tomorrow, then. Before I make sure he makes lunch with you." Rodney tacked it up in the timeline in his head where he kept things organized like Grant's medication times, cleaning the litter box, and any impending reports. 

"Done!" Grant could probably see it lining up in his head, too. "Can we, let's have dessert now?" His lasagna was finished, too. Funny, how time moved sometimes. 

It slowed and leapt for Rodney, and he assumed it did for Grant, too. Just one of that long list of things they didn't talk about. Rodney grabbed Grant's plate, and stuck them both in the sink to soak. "Go find the video tape, and I'll get your ice cream and meet you in the living room." 

Some people, he thought, watching as Grant stood up and went to find the tape, would say that this was weird. That taking care of his brother the way he did was abnormal, that Grant could be on his own, would probably do better with the independence. They were the same people who ripped off Band-Aids, and who liked to do things and claim they were for somebody's own good. 

They were people who hadn't seen Grant breakdown. He hadn't done it in a while, but that was because Rodney had given him structure, because Rodney was careful to watch his medication, careful to note changes in a book that he could take with them to the doctor to say that on this and this day, this happened. Good days, good years, didn't just happen magically, and that was what Rodney guessed most people assumed. That Grant, that Rodney, just did okay, no work, no planning. 

Because as worried as he was about what would happen to Grant if something happened to him, Rodney worried what he'd do if something ever happened to Grant. 

* * *

> They were at the funeral visitation of someone Grant didn't even know. 
> 
> Well, he knew of him, of course. Ernest Pembroke had been Mother's husband, the one who hadn't been bright enough to figure out that there were boys kept in a room in the cellar. Mer's words, not his, because Grant knew. He knew how Mother could make things seem to be innocuous, or wrong, or perfectly all right all at once. 
> 
> Mer liked to pretend he'd always existed outside of that bubble of her tight, tight perfection, but he hadn't. None of them had, and miss Vicky had called it survivors' guilt, which was funny because they'd all survived. 
> 
> Rodney was fussing with his own tie, eyeing the big wooden door after they'd parked the car. There were lots of cars in the parking lot, lots of people there to see Ernest Pembroke, who Mer remembered and Grant simply didn't. Grant remembered that he'd refused to even consider helping their mother post bail. And he'd testified what he could at the trial, and that was the only thing that had raised Mer's opinion of the man from 'shithead' to 'moron'. 
> 
> There were other things, too, that Grant didn't know anything about but Rodney did. They had a sister, Jeannie Magaret Pembroke, and she didn't know them. Actually, she knew Mer, but Mer didn't talk about it. He didn't like thinking about it, or considering what had happened. Ever. 
> 
> And they were there, at the funeral, Rodney said, for Jeannie. Because Jeannie had called and she was in college and they had the leave time and their family was small enough as it was. They needed to show up, for some reason, so there they were, and Grant wanted to hide in Mer's shadow. Mer, she knew Rodney as Mer, so Grant could settle on that. 
> 
> "Okay, this is going to be awkward, so just, we'll play it by ear." 
> 
> Awkward, Grant thought, was being found wandering down the road in your boxer shorts wearing a balaclava and waving a light saber. This was something much more serious than that. "Oh, okay." Okay, because what else was he supposed to say? They had a sister he had never met, and wouldn't know if they passed one another on the street. There wasn't anything to say about that. 
> 
> Rodney led the way, led it like a charge into the building, pushing the door open and stopping by the book to sign his name and Grant guessed that was what they were supposed to do. He'd never been to a wake before. 
> 
> There were people gathered everywhere, professional looking people, the kind of people who had Serious Jobs and did Serious Things. Grant recognized the look of them from Area 51. There were guys who loved their jobs and thought it was really cool, and they had a good time. But then there were the Serious Business people, and those were annoying, and also boring. 
> 
> Wakes probably weren't supposed to be fun, but Grant was pretty sure it would be better if no one else died of stultifying Serious Boredom. 
> 
> There was just the one coffin and if other people died what would the Wake-place do with them? 
> 
> "Grant, hey -- there she is." Rodney gestured, pointed to a girl whose gold-brown hair was wild with curls even though it was pulled back. She looked Serious, too. 
> 
> Grant guessed it was okay to be Serious if someone died. Especially if it was someone close, someone like Mer, who Grant loved so much that sometimes he wondered how they could be apart all day and not unravel. It was bad, his therapist had tried to say, the one he'd had when he was more crazy than not crazy. Grant hadn't liked him, for a lot of reasons, so they'd gone and found somebody else. There wasn't anything bad about loving somebody, so obviously it was equally okay to be Serious when that somebody died. 
> 
> "She's pretty," he said, and she was. Startlingly pretty, like they had been once. Pictures said so, Grant knew. They were finally growing into their shoulders, though, and getting older, and the pretty had worn off of them. 
> 
> He was okay with that. Pretty had worn into cute, and women generally liked Grant cute, and Mer seemed more comfortable the further they got in looks from their past. "Yeah." Mer's voice sounded off, but he walked closer to her. "Jeannie, hi." 
> 
> She looked up, and Grant thought she looked bruised. Not just Serious, but a little black and blue and hurt around the edges, and it made him want to hug her. She was their sister, but he didn't know her, and that made him feel bruised, too. "Hi," he offered, a tiny sound, and her eyes welled with tears, and he thought for a second that it might be his fault. 
> 
> "Oh, Meredith," she choked, and then she was up and in Grant's arms, and surely she could tell that he wasn't Mer at all. "And Marion. I'm... I'm so glad you came." 
> 
> Oh. 
> 
> Oh, Grant had really forgotten that. Probably on purpose. "Um." 
> 
> "It's good to see you again, Jeannie. I'm sorry about the circumstances. Your father..." Mer didn't correct her, just talked like it would become obvious to her with a little time. "I'm sorry." 
> 
> It was better, Grant thought, if she figured it out on her own. Less traumatic maybe, and so he awkwardly patted her back even when she hid her face against his shoulder and just shook. 
> 
> "It's been so long," she said, the sound of it muffled, and he looked at Mer helplessly, because he wasn't sure what to do, exactly. 
> 
> Rodney shrugged at him, which was not helpful at all, and patted gently at her back as he stepped in closer. "I'm sorry. We're just, Colorado's so far away, and before that we were flat, hysterically broke, and I'm sorry, Jeannie. I know you loved your father." He was good to her, Mer had always said, and he hadn't known what to do with Mer, but he'd tried even if he was stupid. Stupid people were still parents, and Jeannie missed him. It was obvious. 
> 
> "I..." She lifted her head, and her eyes were red, her nose that was so much like theirs was runny, and oh. That was his good shirt. "You're not Mer. You're Marion, aren't you?" 
> 
> "Um..." Grant shuffled a little, because it had been kind of nice. The hugging. He'd liked it, and they had a sister, and he didn't know her, but still. All the same. "Yes?" 
> 
> "Oh." She didn't seem horrified, just a little confused, and Grant was used to that. 
> 
> "Grant. He's Grant, and I go by Rodney, now, nee Mer." Rodney waved his fingers slightly, still smiling at her, a hand still on her back. "We should have done nametags. I'm so sorry, Jeannie. Did, has she sent anything, or?" 
> 
> Their sister (Sister, which was very different from brother, and just a little weird. Actually.) grimaced and finally let go of Grant. Mostly. "Just... just letters. She sends those a lot anyway, to Dad, cursing him for not helping her, for not letting her explain... everything." As if there could be an explanation. 
> 
> "Yeah. We keep a bin to put them in and burn them every couple of months." Rodney's smile was easy, all Mer while he nodded to Jeannie's words, and they had a sister who looked like them, but she didn't, she didn't feel like his second limb like Mer did. "You said it was his heart that went." 
> 
> The jerky nod of her head sent curls all over the place, and Grant couldn't help tracking their movements with his eyes. She was all unknown, weirdly them and yet weirdly not. It was uncomfortable and also right. He wondered what it might have been like if things had been normal, if they'd always been three of them, siblings. "Yes. Just. He was on his way into the office one day, walking, you know. Never mattered how hot it got. You remember? He'd have on long sleeves even when it was a miserable heat wave out, and..." 
> 
> "And a full suit jacket on, yeah, I remember." Mer was wearing his remembering face, faint and half-there while he nodded to Jeannie. "Sometimes over his arm. Said the exercise was good for him." And whether it was or it wasn't didn't seem to be up for argument, but Grant found that funny, funny weird more than funny ha-ha. 
> 
> Jeannie nodded, and she was still standing terribly close to him. "Well. It was hot out, so of course he was flushed, and he went into the office, said something to Anna -- his assistant -- about the heat, and then closed the door. It..." Her voice broke. "It was an hour before his next appointment, and... when she opened the door.... Oh, Mer!" 
> 
> Then she was on Mer, hugging him, the right one, Grant supposed, and Mer seemed to know what to do better. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry you had to do this by yourself, is there anything we can do for you now that we're here?" 
> 
> The way she snuffled made Grant shift uncomfortably. He hated for people to feel sad, and this was their sister. He didn't know her, and somehow that made it even worse. "Because, because we can. If you, that is... whatever you need?" 
> 
> "What he said," Rodney agreed, rubbing at her back. "I mean it." 
> 
> Of course he meant it. Rodney, Mer, he was her brother. Much more so than Grant had ever been, because Grant had always been the one below, who never met her, who never knew anything about her, and he didn't, that wasn't a good thing to think about. Not ever. 
> 
> "I... There's really nothing. I mean... maybe you could stay? With me? At the house? There are things I need to go through but I just... it's so quiet," Jeannie finished miserably. 
> 
> "Sure. Sure. We just booked a room at the Motel Six, so..." Rodney glanced at Grant, checking. Grant had been nervous to come on the trip in the first place, but Cathy from work, from his work, not Rodney's work, was cat-sitting for them while they were gone, and he'd said it would be a week at the worst. Cathy was a nice lady. 
> 
> She was pretty sad that they were moving to Colorado in a couple of months. If they weren't, Grant might have asked her out to dinner. 
> 
> "It, okay," Grant agreed. "I, I don't mind. So long as we can, it'll be okay to check on the cats?" Because they were their cats, and okay, they were brothers and they didn't date a lot and they didn't have kids, so. They were their cats. 
> 
> "We'll be back before Cathy gets bored of them," Rodney promise, and Jeannie was looking at Rodney again, pulling back and wiping at her eyes. "We have cats. Peanut Butter and Jelly. Which is exceedingly dorky, but. Grant has a friend from work catsitting them, so we can help out for a week. Sort things with you." 
> 
> "Oh, that is... thank you, Meredith. Marion. I'm so... there are so many things I want to say, to talk about with both of you because... because I never have before, I've never gotten the chance, and I just...." 
> 
> "It's okay," Grant blurted. "It, it is. Really. Not your fault. None of it." 
> 
> "Really," Rodney agreed. "None of it. Uh, do you want us to just go over to the side, there, and wait, because I think, yes, I think some of your father's colleagues probably want to talk." 
> 
> They wouldn't want to talk to Rodney and Grant, though, because just seeing them probably made people think about Mother, and about Jeannie's dad being stupid, not malevolent. 
> 
> "Um, yes. Yes. Just." She flung her arms around Rodney and squeezed him tight, and then did the same to Grant. "I'm just... I'm so glad. That you're here." 
> 
> "I wish the circumstances were better," Rodney murmured, stepping back a little. "We'll, we'll just be over here." It was almost seven in the evening, and Grant needed to find a water fountain so he could take his pills. Maybe they could find a bathroom, if they got desperate. 
> 
> He reached out and tugged lightly at Rodney's sleeve. "Need..." It was all he had to say. Rodney knew what he needed, after all. 
> 
> "Yeah, okay." Rodney waved slightly to Jeannie, and headed out to the more 'common' area towards the entrance, eyes scanning. "I think we're just making the rest of the guests uncomfortable." 
> 
> Grant couldn't disagree; some of those sidelong looks had made him just as perturbed as they seemed to be. It was better to get out of the way, to just be quiet together. It wasn't their fault, what Mother had done, but people who found out always looked at them funny anyway. "Yeah. Can I have my....?" 
> 
> Rodney fished into his pockets, and came up with the usual array of things that made Grant's mouth twitch. Keys, check. Little pill carrier for Grant, check and handed over. Pocket link, mint wrapper, and a mushy bit of foil wrapped something that Rodney also handed over, probably to get the stiff metal taste of the pills out of Grant's mouth. It might have at one point, before the long drive, been a Rolo. It wasn't like Grant was discriminating in his mad love for chocolate; not really, except for a certain unwavering devotion to Aero bars. 
> 
> He looked around for a fountain and then shrugged at Rodney and decided that heading down the hall to find a bathroom was as good a solution as any. There was nothing visible, and for all Grant knew, they didn't like people in their bathrooms, either. It didn't matter, because he was going to find it anyway. 
> 
> Rodney trailed after him, watching, just shadowing. They were in unfamiliar territory, and Grant wasn't sure which of them was more nervous about that fact. He sometimes thought that Rodney had railcars in his head and tracks that he liked best, pathways around town and even through Area 51, planned out as the shortest most efficient way to get from point A to point B. Wandering the park frustrated him, unless Grant wanted to sit by a pond and feed animals. Rodney needed goals, clear and steady, things that needed to be done. Rodney needed Grant, because Grant gave him those things. He was needy, if he was honest about it. He needed structure, needed steadiness, needed the paths that Rodney followed so faithfully. 
> 
> Now that they had those things, had goals and structure, had healthcare and regular healthy food, they did better. Apart, Grant didn't think they'd do as well, and he considered that as he stepped into the restroom they found and headed for the sink. 
> 
> Rodney didn't follow him, and Grant took his time, smelling the weird pine-type antiseptic while he turned the sink tap to drink out of, oh, little paper cups, very convenient. That was nice of them, to think of that sort of think, since they didn't have a water fountain. 
> 
> He finished up in short order, ate the Rolo, and opened the bathroom door. "All, all done," he said, and offered Rodney his pill box. A guy passing by shot them a funny look, but Grant had long since figured out that it didn't matter what some guy he was never going to see again thought. 
> 
> Rodney was blasŽ about it in the other direction, pocketing the pill box and turning back towards the main room. "I don't understand wakes." 
> 
> "Me, me either." They didn't go to them, usually. They kind of kept to themselves, and it wasn't often that someone they knew personally died. Grant found it a little unusual that this one didn't have food, but maybe that was just something that happened in the States, or maybe Jeannie just hadn't known what to do. He wouldn't have. 
> 
> Maybe it was a good excuse to take her somewhere to eat afterwards. Or possibly Grant was thinking with his stomach. 
> 
> Rodney slipped his hands into his pocket, eyeing the doorway and then the main exit. "Well. Back into the fray." 
> 
> That meant going back in there, where Jeannie hugged them and people looked at them, and in all honesty, Grant didn't want to do that. Not so anybody would notice. Still, they'd come all this way, so he straightened his back, pulled back his shoulders, and decided to pretend he was someplace else, preferably with computers. That would help. 
> 
> He liked pretending at times like that, and that was the way to handle things best. Particularly when one older lady came up to them, peering. "You boys grew up to look just like your father." 
> 
> "Um...." That was a little disconcerting, considering Grant didn't remember much about their father. Mostly just Mother and cement, in the end, although there was a vague memory of crayons. 
> 
> Mostly, he still liked crayons. 
> 
> Rodney shifted closer, clasping his hands in front of him. "I'm afraid I don't remember you, ma'am." 
> 
> "Oh. I'm Miss Peterson, lived across the street from you. I worked with your stepfather." 
> 
> "Um," Grant said again, because it seemed appropriate. How would she know if they looked like their father? After all, they'd lived halfway across the country before Mother had... well. And it wasn't as if she ought to know anything in particular about them, unless.... Of course they'd probably shown pictures of their father on the news. At the time. He hated thinking about it. Rodney had testified, he knew, and that was where things stopped, because he hadn't been able to. 
> 
> "Oh, yes. You're the woman who called the police." Rodney rocked back onto his heels. 
> 
> "Yes, that's me. What're you boys up to now adays?" 
> 
> Grant thought about it, and gave a mental shrug. "Less, less breaking and entering. Now. All things considered." Because that had been a one-time thing, and Rodney had probably scared her half to death. Grant was kind of grateful she'd seen him, called the police. He couldn't imagine what would have happened if Mother had caught them, or if Rodney had taken him back to America, no paperwork in place, no, no therapy or, or Miss Vicky. 
> 
> Rodney had had a plan, but they both knew it wasn't much of one, or even a good one. "We work for the American Government. Computers." Rodney gave that one out nice and vague, straining to make polite smalltalk. "Programming, things like that." 
> 
> "Ohhh, that's a good job," Miss Peterson crowed. "I'm glad. Never thought we'd see you boys up this way." 
> 
> "We, well, but Jeannie," Grant said, because they talked to her. Rodney, mostly, but Grant did, and she was their sister. It was the way things were. "Um. Yes." 
> 
> "We're here for Jeannie." Rodney shrugged, looked past her towards the casket and that was as far as they were going to get. "I can't say either of us misses it up here much." 
> 
> The old lady gave them the funniest look. "Oh, but dears! I'm sure you'd have enjoyed staying. After all, poor Ernest. He was quite the sad man, and it would have been so nice for him to have you here through all of that trouble." 
> 
> Rodney looked like he was going to turn red at the edges. "Through... what trouble?" 
> 
> "Oh, dear. The media, you know. It was really just terrible. I'm sure you can imagine, poor things, all shuttled off to the end of beyond, and Ernest left alone. They finally allowed him to take Jeannie home, of course, but you were both so much older," and Grant wondered if she was senile or something, because they weren't related to Jeannie's father. They wouldn't have come to live with him even if he hadn't been a moron. 
> 
> "Rodney? I, um, I think, oh, well, Jeannie seems, we should probably...." Because Rodney never knew how to get himself out of awkward conversations, and this one was so far beyond awkward it didn't bear thinking on. 
> 
> Rodney was probably flailing inside of his head, and he seemed relieved. "Oh, yes. Yes, sorry about this but uh, we're going to go make sure Jeannie's doing all right..." 
> 
> "Of course, poor thing. All alone in the world, the three of you." For a second, Grant was absolutely certain the old lady was going to pinch their cheeks. He stepped back out of the way to be sure it wasn't him she got. 
> 
> She almost got Rodney, he suspected, but Rodney stepped sideways, and waved slightly and just started to walk. Sometimes, Grant really thought his brother needed a little more socialization. Grant might stutter, and he might... well, faux pas was a kind word for the kinds of mistakes he occasionally made. Still. Rodney got himself backed into corners he couldn't find his way out of. 
> 
> "Maybe, maybe we should tell her we'll meet her somewhere. You know. After," he suggested, because in Grant's experience, where there was one crazy lady, there was probably another. 
> 
> "Right. You stay here. I'll talk to her," Rodney offered, like he thought one man was less likely to draw attention than two. Grant figured it was more likely to give strangers an opportunity for cornering them apart to ask them awkward personal questions. 
> 
> He tried to back into the corner, tried to look uninteresting, and hoped that it worked. 
> 
> This one was an older man, and okay, he wasn't that old, but it was still noteworthy that he was older. "You're one of Ernest's stepsons, aren't you?" 
> 
> Grant felt his chin notch upward, stubborn refusal to feel shy. Rodney had taught him that. "Yes." That was all the clarification he was willing to give. It didn't matter if he was Meredith or Marion. 
> 
> "Were you, uh. The one who knew him or the...?" The question seemed wary, but curious, and that was why they didn't live there. Because at home, they just got asked if they were IT McKay or McKay with the temper. 
> 
> "I'm Dr. McKay. Grant," he said, and he managed it without stuttering by pretending he was Rodney. That worked out okay sometimes, because sometimes he pretended to be Rodney all day long, and that worked out just fine. "Rodney, the other Dr. McKay, is w-with Jeannie." 
> 
> "Oh, you boys are doctors!" That was surprised delight, like, like what? Like he'd expected them to be janitors? 
> 
> "Yes?" Grant asked, because what else was he supposed to say to that? "Physics, astrophysics and, and mechanical engineering. And, and are we supposed to know you or...?" 
> 
> "No, I'm just one of Ernest's friends. He used to talk about you boys, a lot. Never did figure out why he didn't notice, spent a lot of time blaming himself. But, he was a good man." 
> 
> A good man. Well. Perhaps, and Grant was willing to give more of the benefit of the doubt than Rodney, probably. Maybe Rodney had expected more of him, expected that he'd be able to figure it out, that Grant was down there, that Mother was hurting them. In a way, that made Grant the lucky one. "Hm." 
> 
> The older man sighed, and offered his hand to Grant. "I'm Joshua. I'm glad you boys came back here. Jeannie's an awfully sweet girl. Going to college for physics, I think. Got a boyfriend back in town there. She's just a real sweet girl." 
> 
> It was bizarre. The whole thing. Wakes in general, but this one in specific, and Grant shook his hand, hoping Rodney would come back soon. All of these people acted like they knew them, and they didn't. They didn't know anything about them at all. 
> 
> Rodney did start to come back towards him, gesturing one hand in a circle. Go, Go, Go. "Grant, hey, let's go." 
> 
> "It was, I'm sure, it was nice to, to meet you," Grant reassured, and he let loose of the man's hand and made for the door. He'd heard the phrase like a bat out of hell, and yes, okay, that's what he felt like, like a bat escaping from hell. 
> 
> Flap flap flapping, and Rodney caught up with him, got hold of his upper arm, and started towards the car. "I just got berated for not doing enough for Edgar. I, my blood pressure is through the roof. Jeannie wanted us to go home, and it's still, it's the old house, I, I've got her keys." 
> 
> "Ernest." The old house. They had, he had kept living in, in the, in that, and Jeannie wanted... "I, I, I, I, Rodn, Mer, Mer, no. No, Mer." 
> 
> "We're meeting at the pizza place up the street here. She's going to meet us there. I told her I forgot how to get there." Rodney's hand was too tight, and he had to be as miserable at the thought as Grant was. 
> 
> "Mer," Grant whispered. "Mer. No." 
> 
> And he meant it. God help him. He meant it.

* * *

> He didn't want to be there. He didn't want to be there. He didn't... 
> 
> Didn't want to be there. But Miss Vicky was there in the observer's box, and she'd take him home when the testimony was over, and he and Grant could eat dinner together and Grant could tell him about the birds and squirrels in the back yard and if he testified, then Grant didn't have to. Grant wasn't well enough to, still, Grant could go outside and ride in the car, and go to shopping stores if he stayed close to them, but a court room had so many people and it was all eyes on Rodney when he stepped into the box. 
> 
> He'd given his mentally prepared testimony to the court, the words the he hoped would put his mother away for a very long time, and it had been, well, it had been bad, but he had prepared for it and was ready, he was ready for that, but there were no questions he could anticipate from the other side. Miss Vicky had told him to just be honest and to remember that he had a safe place to go home to afterwards. 
> 
> "Mr. McKay." Mother's defense attorney was a man with a pinched nose, pursed lips and a round face. He had tiny glasses on, and he was looking at Rodney as if he should be ashamed, as if he was the one who'd done something bad, and not Mother at all. "You've said some very terrible things about your mother here today." 
> 
> "They're true." Rodney wasn't going to let one man with a pinched nose tell him otherwise. He wasn't crazy. He wasn't messed up, not like Grant, not like she'd made his brother, the other half of him. He wasn't all that not messed up, either, but... but not like she'd done to Grant. To their dad. 
> 
> "And nobody here is going to say otherwise. You're here to tell us just how bad all of those things were, and I'm sure that the prosecutor's team has had a good deal of time, just as my office has. Time to go over your deposition, to have all of the records reviewed on young Grant. Time to check over your own medical history and medical records. Now, you came to the attention of the world at large some nearly ten years ago. Isn't that correct, Mr. McKay?" The man was walking back and forth in front of him, making that funny pursed lip face, and it made Rodney nervous. Oh, god, so nervous. 
> 
> "Yes." And he was going ot ask why, why Rodney hadn't said anything sooner. "She gave us sandwiches with mayo, and I had an allergic reaction." 
> 
> "An allergy to citrus, because of the lemon in the mayonnaise. Isn't that right, Mr. McKay?" 
> 
> "Yes." He'd been told not to over-talk, not to give too much of an answer, but Rodney talked, and it bubbled up in him, words wanting to come out. 
> 
> "And what happened when you had this, this first allergic reaction? Tell me. What did Mrs. Pembroke do when she realized that you were seriously ill?" 
> 
> "She took me to the hospital. They treated me, and released me, and brought me home like... like I was just dropped off, and said I could stay upstairs. She said my father had dropped me off because he didn't want me anymore, that I was too much trouble." Rodney swallowed, and his eyes darted over to look at his mother, behind the table. She looked... she looked so different, there. Prim and proper, instead of wild-eyed, with strong, grabbing hands. It wasn't right, that they got to see her that way when that wasn't the way she was. Not really. 
> 
> "But she made sure that you got medical attention when you needed it," the man said. "She took you from your basement room and sought help for you. And once you were home and well, how did she treat you? When you were upstairs with the rest of the family?" 
> 
> "She finally enrolled me in school." Rodney made sure to sound less than impressed with that. "When I was nine. Never mind that apparently I should've been there four years sooner. Oh, and she started making me perform sex acts on her. I guess that was why she took me to the hospital instead of letting me die. I must've been more fun alive then dead." 
> 
> The man stopped where he stood and rocked back on his heels for a minute, nodded. "But she cared for you. And she let you see your brother, when you asked." 
> 
> "If I did what she asked me to do!" What kind of argument was the man making? It didn't seem to Rodney like it was going to do anything other than make his mother look more insane, and oh, god, she was smiling at the jury. 
> 
> "And did you ever notice that your mother was... very different when she was taking care of you than she was when she was forcing you to do these things to which you have already testified? That she wasn't herself during these times, that perhaps she never even seemed to realize that she had another son locked away downstairs when she was upstairs and taking care of her family? Going about her day to day business?" 
> 
> "No. No, she wasn't. She was different to Jeannie and different to Ernest, but then she'd look at me, and it was stupid day-to-day things. She'd make meals with lemon in it so I couldn't eat dinner. She'd, she'd make breakfast, cereal or oatmeal, and I'd have the bowl with the spoiled milk." He shifted in the chair, looking for his foster 'mother' out there in the observers to remind himself that Grant was waiting for him after all of that. "She wasn't different and she didn't take care of me." 
> 
> "So you weren't given piano lessons when you requested them? Extra math tutoring because you enjoyed it?" As if that made any difference. "She didn't ever take you out for ice cream, give you birthday parties?" 
> 
> "And she took Jeannie out for ice cream and gave her birthday parties and dance lessons, except she never made Jeannie live in the cellar and she didn't crawl into Jeannie's bed at night to have sex with her!" And Jeannie was, god, Jeannie was young and he was glad that she wasn't there, that it was just Ernest out there with the observers. Jeannie was all of almost eight. "She, spending money on me doesn't make it all go away!" 
> 
> The man stopped, looked at him, all seriousness. "You're right. It doesn't. But what we have to understand here, what you clearly don't understand, is that Mrs. Pembroke isn't well. You have to admit..." 
> 
> "Objection, your Honor. The defense can't make Mr. McKay admit to anything that he does not believe or know to be true." 
> 
> Thank god. Rodney sat back in the stiff wooden seat, looking back down at his hands. He could feel them shaking, and he just felt miserable, drained, with a knot growing in his chest. "My mother is a disgusting excuse for a human being, and she's ruined my brother's life and mine, and that's all I'm going to admit to." 
> 
> Ever. 
> 
> Or... 
> 
> Ever. No matter how many questions that man asked, he was never going to admit to anything else.

* * *

> He'd never seen it from the outside, or if he had, he didn't remember it. He shouldn't have to remember it. He shouldn't even have to be here, this wasn't his place. This was, it was some form of Hell, and neither he nor Mer should ever have had to see it again. 
> 
> But they were, because he and Mer were trying to be nice and that? That was just the kind of thing that happened to them when they tried to be nice. Mer had been tense on the drive over and it was a silent argument, because he wanted to go home Now Now Now, except they weren't. They were going to the house that Grant only remembered from the inside downstairs and Jeannie had been living in it when she wasn't at college. 
> 
> "Well. I, uh." 
> 
> "I think I'm going to throw up," Grant said, and the car stopped so suddenly that he was glad he had on a seat belt. It was good that it stopped, though, because he jerked open the door, one hand fumbling at the latch, and then somehow he was out of it and gagging on nothing at all. 
> 
> Rodney turned the car off, and put it into park, Grant knew that sound the parking brake made, and he just knelt on the grass while Mer came up behind him. "Grant, it's okay. I promise, it's okay..." 
> 
> But it wasn't, wouldn't, couldn't be, oh. Oh, he couldn't, they... "Can't," he croaked out, and shuddered, because there wasn't enough. Not enough to throw up, and he was going to gag again. "Mer. I, I, I, I, I c-c-can't." 
> 
> "Grant..." Mer was wheedling, hands on Grant's back, crouched down beside him. "I can't just leave you in the car. She said the basement isn't, we're not even going near there. I promise." 
> 
> Didn't matter. It didn't matter, because the basement was Grant's prison, but the rest of the house, that was Mer's, and he wanted, Grant wanted to go home. He wanted to go anywhere but that house, because they didn't belong there. "O-o-okay." Except it wasn't. At all. 
> 
> "I'm so sorry, so sorry, I didn't know when I agreed we'd help out." Rodney was whispering it, because Jeannie was in the open doorway when they were coming closer. "I'll make it up to you, I'm so sorry..." 
> 
> Grant was the one that was sorry. Sorry for Mer, because at least he didn't know what it was like, being upstairs, and he wanted to say so, but all he could do was raise shaking arms and put them around his brother. 
> 
> "Meredith? Marion?" 
> 
> "Sorry! We're having a moment here." Rodney never sounded strained or disappointed when he said things like that, and he hugged Grant back, just holding him. "I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you. I promise." 
> 
> "But you. Y-y-you're the one, Mer. You're the one," Grant mumbled, and held him tight. "It's, it's, I'm, but I don't, I think..." 
> 
> Rodney exhaled, and just let Grant tuck himself in close, and Grant could feel when Rodney's posture changed, could feel how tense he was. "Deep breaths. We're, I'll deal with it. I'll be okay. You'll be okay." 
> 
> "Meredith? Is everything all right?" Well, no. No it wasn't, and he'd said it before he really thought about it, and it was funny, really. Looking at her and seeing the astonishment, because she was just a kid. Just a kid then, just a kid now, and she probably hadn't ever really thought about it. 
> 
> They were just, just a few years older than her, and was that what made it all a world of difference? "We haven't been back here since we left, so, uh, unforseen hurdle, we'll be fine..." 
> 
> "Mer, I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry, I just... I didn't think. I have an apartment, across town. It's cramped, so I just... I didn't think. Let me take you both there instead...." 
> 
> "No, it's okay, I mean, you need help packing things and sorting things, right?" Mer was a hand rubbing down along Grant's back, and it probably comforted him as much as it did Grant. 
> 
> "Well. Yes, but I had hoped. I mean. You're both my brothers, and I was hoping we'd get a chance to... but here, I don't know that we, you can..." 
> 
> Obviously the rambling long-windedness was something they shared. "I, I, I, I'll be fine," Grant mumbled. "'m worried. 's Mer. Because, not, I don't, always down, downstairs. Below. Not like, not like Mer. Up here." 
> 
> "I'll be fine, Grant. Really. I swear. I'd swear it on a stack of DOIM regs that you left in the backseat." Mer pulled away, trying to look at Grant's face, and why was Mer allowed to worry for Grant, but not Grant for Mer? Because he knew, he knew that it was going to trigger Mer. Maybe not right away, but it would, and Mer didn't, he didn't get treatment for himself. He didn't want to get treatment for himself, because if he did, the stupid Americans might think he was a security risk, even though he'd always been just the way he was. So, they'd have a bad few weeks, and Mer would obviously be hearing and seeing things that were blatantly not there, but he'd just pretend that it was all going to be okay. Eventually, it would be, but eventually never came soon enough. 
> 
> "O-o-okay," he said finally, because what else could he say? 
> 
> And Mer just pulled, and they started up the steps and he wanted to pull Mer down the stairs and away, because they were supposed to be moving, new job, new everything soon and he didn't want Mer falling apart during that. It was too good a thing for that. 
> 
> "Mer, I..." Jeannie was looking at them, and finally closed the door. "No, I shouldn't have asked you to. I'll get my boyfriend to come up and lug the boxes around, okay? I'm sorry. Do you mind if my apartment's cramped and a mess?" 
> 
> "No," Grant said. "We, we don't mind. You, you, we had this, this one room efficiency. At, at MIT. And, and Mer, he took care of me. I'm, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Jeannie." Why she didn't have some kind of M name, silly and mannish to match their girly ones, he couldn't guess. Maybe she did. Middle name, maybe? 
> 
> Mer was staring at the house like it was some mountain he'd wanted to climb, some obstacle he'd wanted to overcome, and maybe Grant was taking that opportunity away from him. But it was for Mer's own good. "I, yeah, okay. I'm sorry. I wanted to be useful and helpful, I just didn't expect... the house." 
> 
> Jeannie shook her head. "I'm sorry, I just. What with everything, with Dad, I didn't think, and I should have thought. I really should have. I'm sorry. Both of you. Let me make it up to you, somehow...." 
> 
> "No, it's, we were just at your father's wake, and the funeral's tomorrow. I shouldn't have..." Mer started to wander down the sidewalk with them, once Jeannie walked away from the house steps. "Insisted." 
> 
> "We, we can, we can afford a hotel." Well. Motel 6, but they were nice and clean, most of the time, and maybe they could face it. In the day. The house, knowing it was there, and what had to be done. Maybe Mer could face it, but not in the dark. Miss Vicky had told Grant once there was nothing in the dark that wasn't there in the light, but that didn't mean it didn't make things easier, daylight. 
> 
> He'd learned that a long time ago. 
> 
> Daylight in general, made things easier. 
> 
> "Just... come over and stay in my apartment. You'll be on the sofa, but I'd rather... I want to try to get to know you both." 
> 
> "You could, you could... with us. Stay with us. We'll, we'll share." Because they would anyway, and then they could face it. Later. "And, and, and we'll, we'll help. In the, when we, that is...." 
> 
> She was looking at Mer, like she didn't understand him, but Mer did, and rubbed at Grant's shoulder. "We can talk about it tomorrow, later. We're doing pretty okay, though. Back in the States, so if you ever need a place to stay, we're, it wouldn't be any trouble is what he's saying." 
> 
> "Or, or anytime. Or now. Just, just not, not at, I can't, Mer can't, not here. At night." Which was more what he meant, but that, too. The fact that Mer was off, well. That was a sign of just how bad things really might be, if they stayed. 
> 
> "I'll make tea," Jeannie promised. "Here, just follow me. I'll drive slow and you can follow." Jeannie patted Mer on the shoulder and moved towards her car. 
> 
> They did the same, Mer opening his door for him, and Grant was glad. He still felt sick, but not so bad now. He climbed in, got settled, and when Mer got in, he said quietly, "It, it, it's not so bad. Here. For me. It's, I'm worried, because..." 
> 
> "Yeah." That was quieter, and Mer's face looked distant. "I keep thinking I should be able to do it. I did it once. I climbed up there and pried the window open and I got in, and you were down there almost dead and maybe I can't get past that." 
> 
> Grant looked at it, and it wasn't so scary. Just a house. There were lots of other ones. He wouldn't have been able to pick it out from the others, himself. It was a lot more than that to Mer, though. Scarier. More of a nightmare house than the others. "You, it's not, you don't have to." 
> 
> "I feel like I should be able to." Mer had his seatbelt on, made sure Grant's was on before he turned the car on, took it out of park, ready to follow their sister to her apartment. Grant was okay with sofas and floors. "It shouldn't still have that... hold on me." 
> 
> For a while, they didn't say anything. They just followed Jeannie's taillights, and were quiet. Finally, though, Grant couldn't help himself. "It, it's, it's a monster house, Mer. I, I never saw it. You... you had to go there every day. And you went back. Of, of, of your own will. That's, that's a lot worse." 
> 
> "I went for you. I couldn't stop thinking of you, in there, alone, and it made it easy to get back in. Now there's no reason to go in." Jeannie's part of town looked cluttered, cramped, like their efficiency in college. It felt familiar in a way, and that was good. Familiarity went a long way towards making the bad things seem not so bad. 
> 
> "I, I, I hope I would have come back. For you. Mer." 
> 
> "You would have." So confident, so easy, no hesitating. Maybe he was right. If they were switched, he would've come back for Rodney. They still would have gotten out. 
> 
> And if they ended up sleeping badly that night, Grant was going to blame it on the tea.


	3. Chapter 3

Salisbury steak and macaroni and cheese meant that it was a very good day for lunch. 

Of course, there were other things available; there was a ridiculous amount of interest in lemon chicken in both of the mess halls, but it was served more often underground, so coming topside for lunch was usually a good call. They never had the same menu on the same day, so it was safer, in any case. Grant had elbowed him into adding broccoli to his plate, because Grant seemed to believe broccoli was a good thing. 

"Okay, okay. Broccoli is on the plate now, are you happy?" He reached for a Jell-O cup, going for the blue because fake raspberry was safe for him. 

"Y-yep." Grant had his own broccoli, and some kind of weird orange vegetable cut into discs that weren't carrots. Maybe they were some kind of sweet potato. "Oh! Hey! There!" He was waving his hand, happy, looking back over his shoulder. "There's Sheppard." 

"Oh, huh. I thought he was vetting marines." Part of the putting the team together thing. It wasn't as if Sheppard actually had much choice when it came to who was going to be on the team. There were six soldiers they knew were going on teams, and John was allowed to pick three and Rodney simply wasn't getting involved. He was taking firearms lessons, and that shook part of him to the bone, but he also hadn't told Grant about it. 

Some things, it was just better that they didn't discuss. 

"Well, he, everybody has to eat, Rodney." Perfectly reasonable, that, if Rodney thought about it much. Grant was already heading through the tables, straight for Sheppard, so he shadowed him after swiping his card for lunch. Grant seemed perfectly comfortable heading towards Sheppard like a homing beacon. Possibly, possibly Grant had a crush on Sheppard, which would've been a first for Grant. 

Sheppard looked pretty relaxed at his table, and he sat up straighter behind the table for a split second when he saw them. "Hey, buddy." Like he'd been friends with Grant for years, like it was just that easy, and it so, so completely wasn't. 

"Hi," Grant said, and slid into a chair across from him, leaving the one beside him for Rodney. Scratch crush; he was matchmaking. Rodney recognized the signs. "I, I wanted to, to talk to you. About something." 

It was a miracle that he hadn't hauled John home and surprised Rodney with him tied up on the sofa, from the look in Grant's eyes. It left Rodney settling awkwardly into the chair beside Sheppard, lifting his eyebrows at John. "I swear in advance that I had nothing to do with this, whatever it is." 

"Well, so long as it doesn't get anybody hurt or killed, there can't be that much of a problem with it, right?" That was a good way to look at things, very good. It meant Sheppard wouldn't eyeball them funny for anything, not that Rodney really thought he would. 

Grant nodded, and started cutting his lunch into manageable bites. "E-exactly. Exactly, because, because before Rodney says yes, to, to, that thing, then I want to know. I need to know. You, you won't, if he goes with you, you won't leave him. You, you'll always bring him back. Back home. Right?" 

And that was getting to the point right there, almost frighteningly quick. 

It was Grant's main concern, though, and Rodney turned his head to look at Sheppard, trying to mime with eye gestures that his answer needed to be yes, without conditions, just a hard honest yes, and why hadn't he thought to coach Sheppard in that? Told him that yes was the right answer, told him that Grant knew about the program because they'd both been at Area 51, told him anything so long as he gave Grant the right answer. 

"Well." Grant was watching Sheppard like a hawk as he leaned back, looking straight across the table. "I can guarantee you, absolutely, that if I ever lose Rodney, it'll be because I don't come back myself. I would never leave anybody behind. You guys taught me that." 

That was the right answer, and Rodney relaxed, reaching for his fork to attack the 'steak'. Well, what passed for one there, a nice bland meat patty and nothing on it, so he had to add his own mustard to make it tastier. "That's, that's probably the most optimistic thing I've heard all week." 

"I can do a little better, if you need me to." Sheppard was grinning at him now, and Grant was digging into the macaroni and cheese with a visible enjoyment. "But for the time being, I'm feeling pretty optimistic about this whole thing." He shrugged and poked his fork into his own onion-and-gravy laden meat. "So. You guys wanna tell me about how things went for you? Just, you know. If you don't want to...." 

Yes, yes and no. "I'd say they generally went... well. If we made it a trend line, it'd be a positive one, I think." They had a house and all the creature comforts they could really want and it was nice. Work and comfort and maybe there was more to most people's lives, but work itself filled that in for Rodney. 

"We, we had Miss Vicky and, and Mister Alex. After you, you saw us. Back then." Grant seemed willing to talk about it. "We, we were, it was in the news. A lot, so, so we didn't go to school or, or anything like that. There, they came and did testing and, and Miss Vicky tutored us. We were... they usually had more kids. Than us. But, we were... it was difficult. So, they, foster care? They just put us with them. Instead. They were between kids, and, and we spent two years. But it was enough." 

"Grant got his GED, and I kicked around at the local college, and we both went to MIT. And... here we are." He always cut the story short much quicker than Grant did, but he didn't want his coworkers knowing, and he didn't want Grant's to know, either. 

People tended to look funny at other people once they knew they'd had sex with their mother. 

"It's really cool, knowing you guys are doing okay." Sheppard munched on a fry thoughtfully. "You know, it just made a big difference to me. Being there that night, helping you get out. I'd been kind of waffling about what to do with my life some back then, and being there... it was really something. I always wondered, you know, if I'd managed to help you, do anything good." 

"Yes. Yes, absolutely, it, if you hadn't been there, it, they would have separated us. Sooner. And, and I couldn't have, have been, not, it wouldn't have been okay without Mer," Grant said, and he was eating, yeah, but he was a little flustered, too. Thinking about back then did that, to both of them. 

Rodney shifted, cleared his throat. "So, you decided to become Canadian? And then you end up working back down here anyway?" 

"Talk about your ironies, huh?" They were eating pretty steadily, and Grant was dancing a little in his chair. The macaroni was obviously better than the fries. "But it's not so bad. At least I'm doing what I want to do with my life, which is something I've never regretted." 

"Yeah, it feels pretty good to come in and do the job you want to. I'd ask if you'd miss flying, but... you'll end up flying something around here." Half of the people in the base would at one time or another. "Probably. Oh, hey, after lunch, remind me to take you past Lee's lab. You're up for a slideshow. On your recommendation, and with full awareness that most military minds prefer pictures, this is the See and Say of, uh, deep space telemetry." 

Grant laughed around his fork. 

"Sweet." That seemed to perk Sheppard up a little, as if flying plus the promise of a Powerpoint presentation was enough to make him happy. If it was that easy, this was going to work out pretty okay. "So, I've got a meeting in, uh, half an hour, but is it okay if I drop by around three?" 

"Yeah, sure. We'll hit Lee's lab then, and hopefully Captain Sheldon doesn't try to drag me off for more, uh, training. Otherwise, I'll leave you a map." Maybe it could be that easy. He was horrible with relationships, with people, with dealing with any vague feeling of connection. Grant had friends, and Rodney had 'Colleagues'; Grant fell in love, and Rodney fell in comfort, or something like it, and he never knew how to deal with it. And now he had a colleague who was maybe possibly friend material, presuming they didn't kill each other in the field. 

He just knew he was going to fuck it up. 

* * *

> Grant was in love. 
> 
> He'd never seen anything so wonderful; bricks and marble and letters cut into stone, naming the building that Rodney was telling him about. There were people everywhere, all around them, and Grant wished there weren't; wished that it was just him and Rodney and the amazing building that would be full of professors and labs and boards that would fill with cool new things to learn. 
> 
> But there were people, and maybe he shouldn't have seen each and every one of them as an obstacle, but he did. They were. Rodney had said they might bother him and he didn't want to be bothered. He wanted to learn people's, professor's names and sit in classes and learn, learn more and more until he was just as smart as Rodney. 
> 
> Rodney had promised he was going to introduce him to his first professor of the day, but that then he needed to use the schedule Rodney had written out for him because Rodney had classes to go to himself. Grant didn't like that. He didn't like that he had to be separate from Rodney. It made him want to fold in on himself, and that wasn't good. Miss Vicky had worked hard to make sure that Grant felt okay in public, that he learned Appropriate Social Interaction, just like that, and he wished he actually felt like interacting appropriately. 
> 
> He wanted to learn. He wanted to be here, and he had to do well because Rodney said they couldn't afford it if both of them didn't, but he didn't want to be without Rodney. 
> 
> It was just for a few hours, though. Just for, just a short period of time, and Rodney had promised that he'd meet him at lunch, and that they needed to meet at the front steps of the silver building with the glassy front, and he'd taken Grant there, too. 
> 
> "You're going to love this place," Rodney crowed as they walked inside, and Grant hoped so. Mer usually knew, knew that he would or wouldn't like something, only brought him good things, things Grant would like, things that made him happy. 
> 
> "I, I, I, I hope so." He was afraid, though. Afraid to be away from Mer because what if something went wrong? How would he know where to go, with so many people there, right there? 
> 
> "You will," Rodney promise again while they started up the stairs. "Now, all of your classes are in this building. You have three before lunch, and I have one after lunch, and then we're done for the day, today at least. And we go home." 
> 
> Home, which would be good. So good, and Grant had been scared to leave this morning. He'd wanted to stay in the kitchen, safe and warm between the refrigerator and the wall. College sounded wonderful, and Grant wanted it. He wanted it so much, wanted to learn, and, and, and study, and figure out the why of so many things, but... He didn't know for sure that he could face it at the same time. 
> 
> "Okay?" Rodney's voice was soft, soft and paced, so hopeful when he popped the door to 238 open, and waved to the professor. 
> 
> "Rodney McKay! I'd heard you were coming back this year." The professor looked, looked harmless, and that made Grant relax. He was older, white hair, his back stooped, and he was all smiles when he reached out with both hands to shake Rodney's hand. 
> 
> "It's good to see you, Professor Raziskovalca. I'll be in your one pm Intro to Special Relativity this afternoon -- I wanted to introduce you to my brother, Grant." 
> 
> There was no way Grant would ever be able to repeat that name. Ever, and when the old guy turned to look at him, Grant shuffled his way back behind Rodney and peeked around his shoulder. "...Hi." 
> 
> Rodney made a quiet noise, and twisted, pulling Grant forwards. "He's just as smart as I am, sir, and just as eager to learn. By next fall, he'll be taking Intro to Special Relativity." 
> 
> "Ohhh, this is..." He reached a hand out to Grant, anticipating probably the same handshake as Rodney gave. "You're a very lucky young man, the both of you. I'm glad you're both all right. There was a lot of tsking in the department when Rodney pulled out of classes so suddenly, but when we found out why, I think we all agreed it was the best of reasons. It's good to meet you, Grant, and I hope you're ready for Physics I. If it's too slow for you, I can slip you some side readings, all right?" 
> 
> He nodded, because he was worried. What if it wasn't too slow? What if he was too slow, and Mer just thought he was smart enough to learn in the same place he was? What if, what if Miss Vicky was wrong, what if the tests were wrong, what if...?" 
> 
> "I, I, I, I'd like that. Please. S-sir." 
> 
> Rodney rubbed a hand just between Grant's shoulder blades, just above his book-bag. "It'll be my pleasure. Why don't you take a seat at the front up here? Don't be too worried, today I mostly go over the basics and the syllabus." 
> 
> "Okay. Grant, I'm going to go to class now. You have your schedule?" 
> 
> He shuddered, already afraid. Alone. With other people all around him, other people not Mer or Miss Vicky or, or anybody. He was terrified, and excited, and he didn't know if he could bear it. "Uh, uh-huh. Y-yes. I, I have my schedule, and snacks, and, and books. And paper. For notes." Or boredom. He prayed for boredom, and not a terrible realization that he was incredibly stupid. 
> 
> Rodney had no idea how stressful it was, because he was Mer and Rodney, and Grant was just Grant and Mer had never thought he was anything but brilliant. And he just assumed Grant was, and what if they were all, what if everyone was wrong? "Okay. I'll see you at lunch." And maybe he could shadow Rodney to his last class of the day, just tuck himself into a seat in the back of the room, or even on the floor. 
> 
> Anywhere, Grant thought. Anywhere, so long as by the end of the day, he knew. He had to know, so that he could be terrified and miserable, or elated. One, or the other. It had to be.

* * *

> There were days when he didn't want to get out of bed. There were days when he couldn't, could not, because he hadn't slept and he had to drag himself out and only then because Grant was moving, and usually those days, he swapped workplaces with Grant. 
> 
> This had been more insidious, more unexpected. Just, just research, it was all just research, nothing that needed to be fixed right away, nothing that was earth shattering, but he'd tried socializing with his co-workers and that had been worse than any report needed twelve days ago, but just handed to him that morning. He'd done it twice and Grant had driven home himself and Rodney had caught a cab and then he'd gone home, and it had all just fallen apart. 
> 
> When he saw them again, he was going to claim an alcohol allergy. Something, anything, to keep from having to go anywhere with them again. They were sapping his very will to live, the alcoholics, and he just couldn't... he couldn't. He couldn't stop the sounds anymore, the music that sometimes rose in the background and filled his skull, couldn't ignore the things he was seeing. 
> 
> He'd told Grant to go to work without him, that he was going to stay home, but it hadn't been a good decision either. He'd tried doing a routine, tried showering, tried shaving, tried pretending that it was a Saturday morning, that he was on vacation and not taking time for his sanity, but he kept losing thoughts in threads and his brain kept skipping back in time, snippets of the bar and the cellar cutting together and smashing into the bad daytime TV that was playing as background noise. 
> 
> Mother was there, and her voice grated against the strains of piano strings, telling him she should have left him below, buried him with Daddy, left him for company for Grant. If she had, Grant would be dead, and they'd be ghosts together, and that was something he had thought about more than once. Thought about being dead, thought about being eternally in the cellar, and at the same time, he could hear Professor Raziskovalca telling him that Grant was, that he was brilliant, that Intro to Physics was a waste of his time, that he was brighter than Rodney, and that drove him utterly mad. 
> 
> He was brighter than Rodney. He was, and it was miserable and gutwrenching that he got away with it, that he got to go to work with those idiots and his brother wasn't allowed to because he hid it better than Grant could. Grant wasn't a consummate liar, Grant wasn't a miserable wreck of a fraud, he just was. It wasn't his fault that their mother had grabbed the wrong one out of them out of the cellar, and sometimes he thought that she should have just left him in the cellar and taken Grant Upstairs and let him live Rodney's life, because Grant was brighter than Rodney and he'd never told Grant that, what Professor Raziskovalca had said. He'd just processed the paperwork, talked to Grant and soothed his fears, and had transferred him to Physics III after they'd talked to the dean about it. In the end, the dean didn't care about those basic courses as long as Grant tested out of them and made the credits up elsewhere. 
> 
> Sometimes, he thought Mother was right. He wasn't good for anything, wasn't even average, but some kind of idiot savant, only good at physics and math and Grant. Sometimes, he thought it would have been better if he'd died, just the way she'd hissed at him, nails digging into his upper arm, fury in her eyes. 
> 
> Sometimes, he just wanted it all to stop. All of it. The sounds, the things he saw, everything. 
> 
> He wasn't even safe trying to go through his routines, because no matter what he did, making coffee, flipping through the TV, all of it. Solitaire threatened him, too, with queens and kings and jacks and aces, because he wasn't even any of them, and it all circled back in his head. He was bad with people, a complete failure, he was hollowed out and there was something missing that was probably as plain as day to everyone else, something Grant had and he didn't, and there were noises in his head while he tried to sort out clubs from spades in his vision. 
> 
> "Mer." 
> 
> He hadn't heard the door open, so it probably wasn't Grant. Probably. It sounded like him, though, and there was a cool washcloth swiping at his face, over his neck and down a little into his t-shirt. So, it might be, unless that was all in his head, too. 
> 
> "Mer. I'm going to get you something to eat. I, I, I've got the sandwich delivery place number. So, I'll be back soon. With, with broccoli soup." 
> 
> That meant it probably was Grant. Maybe. Grant thought a cold washcloth and broccoli were some kind of cure-all for what ailed a person. Rodney couldn't say he was all that wrong. 
> 
> He'd hallucinated his mother more than a few times, touching him as real as real ever felt, but he was pretty sure he didn't hallucinate promises of soup. "Okay." He hoped he said okay, hoped that it was, would be okay, because Grant needed him. Grant needed him and other than that, he was, he was superfluous. Grant could step into his shoes and pretend to be Rodney McKay and no one would know except for fingerprints. 
> 
> Maybe he could leave Grant his hands. 
> 
> The Queen was bouncing at him, or maybe.. yes, bouncing, dancing, and he wanted to close it. It wasn't his computer, it was Grant's, the Mac, and the steady bounce-bounce-bounce wasn't out to get him, no. It was just the program, and maybe, yes, that was Grant telling him that, and gently taking it away from him to lay it aside. 
> 
> Grant was back, and he was close, and Rodney could smell cheesy broccoli soup, and Grant was sliding in to sit beside him on the sofa. 
> 
> "I was thinking of giving you my hands." 
> 
> "That's, that's nice. A very very nice thought. Except, well, I think you need them. And, and I like that you have them, not me. So. Open up. Airplane into the, the hangar." 
> 
> Airplane into the, oh, there was a spoon against his mouth, and Rodney twisted, reaching fingers to wrap over top of Grant's hand, trying to take control of the spoon. He swallowed, let the taste sink into his senses. "I, I'm bad with people." 
> 
> "It, it's okay." Grant didn't let him have the spoon, but Rodney couldn't really keep hold of it very well, anyway. "I, I like you. Just the way you are. Be, besides. If you mean the people you work with, it's, well. That's relative. Because, because most of them are... kind of...." 
> 
> "Braindead," Rodney prompted, leaning into Grant. He hoped he was less trouble for the second spoonful -- the soup was good, bits of broccoli that needed chewing, but his fingers weren't working for more than the twitch action of moving cards on the computer Grant had taken from him. "It, I think you should have been me." 
> 
> Watching his brother open his mouth when he wanted Rodney to was pretty funny, actually. "That, that would never have been, it was, that wouldn't have worked. You, you, I'm Grant, and you're Mer. It's, that's the way things should be." 
> 
> "You, you should have been..." He swallowed hard, opened his mouth again and tried to cooperate with Grant, because he was hungry and just the smell made his mouth feel hot. "Upstairs." 
> 
> Upstairs, where maybe Mother would have been better to Grant because Grant was smarter, better with people. 
> 
> Grant cupped his cheek and turned his face, and Rodney felt his eyes heat up, sting with water despite himself. "Meredith." His brother leaned forward, pressed his forehead against Rodney's. "Mer. It's not the way. It, it was better, that it was you. I, I, she would have... It was better. It was best. You're, Mer. You don't give yourself enough credit. You're the best brother. In the world. Ever. Best person. No, none of them, none of them are smart enough to know. They're, it's okay. It's okay, for you to be bad with them. It's okay, for it to be, be too much. Because, because we, there's us. Here. And I know." 
> 
> Grant knew, Grant knew and understood, but sometimes Rodney wasn't sure that they were thinking the same thing. "It, I, I want to be like them, light and stupid. Marcy wanted to come home with me, she was too close, too, she looks like her and I didn't know what to say except no, and." And no was never really a no, it was a laugh, apparently, a laugh and a question back of, "No?" and hands on his crotch, fingers pulling at his zipper. 
> 
> His brother pulled his head down to his shoulder, tugged Rodney over so that he could hide against him. "I'll, I'll take care of it. Take care of her," he promised Rodney. "You don't ever, ever have to, to do that. Not ever. I'll take care of it." 
> 
> He didn't ask how, didn't want to know how. It was something that should've been stupid and simple, a female coworker who thought he was good looking enough to fall all over while she was drunk and he didn't know how to handle it, how to react to it. He had to be weird and fucked up and it made his chest hurt, but he tucked his face in against Grant's neck. "I can't stop thinking. I can't." 
> 
> "Shhhh." Grant was rocking, soothing him, and Rodney wished it would help, wished it would get him to stop thinking for just a minute. Just a little while. "Shhhh." 
> 
> And then there was shifting, and water, and a pill, one of the pills, Rodney didn't know what kind. Couldn't know. 
> 
> Didn't care, as long as it stopped the thinking. As long as he could rest and just know that he had Grant and a sofa and warmth, familiarity. 
> 
> As long as it stopped.

* * *

> It should have been better in the light. Grant had seemed to think it would be all right, that facing the house in the daylight would make it not so hard. He was still tense, still waiting for his stomach to empty itself out onto the floor, or possibly to slip out a pant leg and make a run for the door. 
> 
> But it was worth it, for Jeannie. 
> 
> He'd come Upstairs when Mother had been pregnant with her. Maybe that explained the fact that she'd gotten him medical attention instead of letting him die below stairs and cementing him in with Father. He'd always sort of been grateful to Jeannie for his existence, although maybe not so much the year he'd been ten and she'd been two. 
> 
> She'd been a crazy bitch of a two year old, if one was inclined to using the word bitch and applying it to toddlers. Rodney was willing to help her sort through old boxes, and Grant was glued securely to his side as they rummaged through her father's study. He certainly hadn't expected to die any time soon, because his affairs weren't in order at all. 
> 
> There were stacks of papers, of information about the mortgage, about his life insurance, about the accounting firm, but none of them actually made any sense. They were all just shuffled in with other papers, copies of Jeannie's grades, news clippings of Rodney and Grant's successes at university, unsent letters in which he tried to apologize but seemed to have failed in doing so in his own eyes and then never sent. 
> 
> It was funny, because Rodney would probably have paid those letters more attention than the perverse 'love letters' from their mother. "So, what're you going to do with the house?" And how would things distribute to their mother, which was... strange to think of. 
> 
> Jeannie looked up, rubbing her nose and leaving a smear of dirt along the bridge from all the dusty things they'd been handling. "Oh. Dad wanted it sold, with the proceeds split between the three of us. He, um, he had his will re-written not long after everything that happened. The life insurance policy is supposed to be split the same way." 
> 
> "Oh." That, that struck him as a little strange, and Rodney reached out to rub the dirt off of the bridge of her nose. "We don't need the money. We're finally standing pretty well on our own two feet, and if you want to do graduate school, Jeannie, it's hell to do that and work, so..." 
> 
> "So, so, so you should, we could keep it. Trust fund. To help, to, so that it doesn't lose too much with, in taxes," Grant offered helpfully. 
> 
> "That's a good idea," Rodney murmured, turning his head to look at Grant. He was better with finances, better with money in a long-term way when Rodney was the one who remembered to do mundane things like paying bills. "I have no idea what that means." 
> 
> The grin that stretched Grant's mouth was indulgent. "I, I know. But it's okay. I still love you." 
> 
> And yeah. That was, that was it. Right there. 
> 
> "Oh." Jeannie sounded a little sad, a little odd. "Oh, I... I wish...." 
> 
> "Hmn?" He wasn't sure why, just lifted his head and glanced over at her as he tried to sort and straighten out the boxes to at least clear room in them. There was a feeling that the things in it were nostalgic, and that Jeannie would want to hold onto them. 
> 
> "I wish you both lived closer," she told them, and reached up to rub her hand over her face again. "I just... I've missed you, Mer. Since..." 
> 
> Since he hadn't come home, and he felt a little guilty about that. He just hadn't been able to face the house, and so he'd been right not to return, really. 
> 
> "It, it, it's my fault." Grant was looking at her. "I, I, for a long time? I wasn't so good. It was, everything was hard. And, and I took up all of Mer's time. All of it." 
> 
> "Well, and school. And working. It's a time sink," Rodney shrugged, sifting larger papers from the clippings, trying just to... get it in some semblance. He didn't want to linger and wonder, so he was going less context and more size-related sorting. "And now we're all the way down in Nevada." 
> 
> She stopped sifting through papers, bit her lip, then took a deep breath. "I was thinking, maybe, when I'm done with my undergrad degree..." 
> 
> "Yes?" He could almost guess what she was going to say, but he wasn't sure. And he tried not to jump the gun over people's words because it frustrated Grant. 
> 
> "Maybe... maybe I could do graduate school somewhere closer by? I mean, if you didn't want me, I wouldn't have to, or..." 
> 
> "If you want to." Rodney shifted, looking at her. "If you find a good school down there that you want to do, Jeannie. I, we'll try harder to stay in touch. There's email, you have email, right? And letters. And if you want to move down south, then do it, but if you don't, it's okay. I... I'd just like to know that you're happy." 
> 
> Grant was nodding, off in the corner, but mostly letting Rodney handle talking to Jeannie. He didn't really know her, and it was probably making Grant a little uncomfortable. Still, when Jeannie smiled, she smiled at both of them, and reached to hug Grant just as often as she hugged Rodney. "I appreciate it. I do. Thank you." 
> 
> "I hope you're happy. I'm completely proud, of course, that you're pursuing a hard science," Rodney added, grinning. "And I know that whenever you want to, if you ever want to, you could more than easily get into a good job." 
> 
> "And, and, he'd be proud of you if you were doing psychology or something, anyway." Grant shuffled the last of his pile into a neat stack. "He tells me about, about what a brat you were, when you were a screaming toddler." 
> 
> It caught out a laugh from the back of his throat, while he turned to take the pile from Grant. "And then, then you were a pretty pretty princess Ballerina." 
> 
> "Why, you...!" Jeannie fell into laughter and flung a handful of papers at him, and then herself, and okay. This was bad, this sucked, being in the house, but being with Jeannie again? Grown up? 
> 
> This was a really good thing.

* * *

John tightened his thigh holster and tilted his head to the side, checking to make sure that McKay was checking the last of his own gear. "You 'bout ready to head out?" he asked, hitching up his belt and settling his pants better on his hips. 

"As ready as I'm going to get." McKay had undergone about four weeks of training, starting before he'd even officially made the decision, and in that time period the base had withstood a 'foothold' situation which had gotten them evac'd, and more strange things than John could logically give a reason to. 

But he kept trying to throw logic at madness, even when it bounced back at his face, and Rodney seemed so calm about it while he buckled his own holster and shifted into his tactical bullet proof vest. "I should be getting hazard pay for this." 

"You are." At least John was pretty sure he was. Hell, the rest of the base obviously did, or somebody would be raising hell. "Get a move on. We're meeting Champlain and Donaldson in five." 

"I'm moving. It doesn't take that long to get down to twenty-eight." Rodney glanced down at his P-90, and then exhaled in a shaky breath. "Okay, let's go." 

"You first," John offered, waving a hand at the door, and it was wrong. It was wrong and greedy and it probably made him a bad person, but walking behind Dr. Rodney McKay was nothing short of a religious experience. He wasn't sure when or if he'd ever seen an ass like that before, but he was grateful (and a little guilty) for the fact that he'd seen it now. 

He shouldn't have felt guilty. It wasn't as if he told McKay that he liked his ass, he hadn't done anything other than look at it sidelong in odd moments. Grant didn't carry himself the same way Rodney did, all pride and decent posture. 

John wondered sometimes what Rodney looked like naked, ass and all. 

"Fine, going. We're going. I'm desperately hoping this milkrun goes well." 

"McKay, you know as well as I do that if you say things like that, you're gonna jinx us." Teasing Rodney was half the fun of the trip sometime. "It's not so bad. Rumor has it they've got some kind of fruit called argabil. Tastes like oranges, but they're not. We can bring 'em back, get 'em tested to be sure they're not citrus, if you want." 

"You just volunteered for this trip because P3X-8596 is beachfront. I'm supposed to be looking for useful technology, and gathering more information on the nanites, not watching you daydream about waves. I can see you picturing the surfing in your head, already." Maybe. Maybe. 

He'd really loved that trip to Vancouver Island. 

John guiltily dragged his eyes back up to Rodney's shoulders. "Hey, a guy's gotta have something to look forward to, right?" The missions with McKay were high on that list. John was search and rescue when he wasn't doing scientific milk runs, and he had a genuine fear of ever leaving Earth with the nutjobs on SG-1. Nobody ever seemed to come back whole from those. 

They were good at what they did, which was no holds barred world-saving according to the mission reports, but the fatality rates that surrounded them were more than troublesome. Three out of four of SG-9 had died a few months ago, and that was worse than just one-off injuries. 

"You can daydream about surfing while I work on trying to translate any of their technology into something useful for us," Rodney advised as they started into the elevator. "Oh, that reminds me, Doctor Fraiser wanted samples of all of the local fruits, because some of them might have medicinal purposes, and we're bringing them medicine, which should cancel each other out? Funny how when you live longer than a hundred days, your health goes to hell in a handbasket." 

"Yeah, well, given a choice, I'll take living forever with shitty health," John drawled. "At least to a point, you know?" Weird, but he could see how it would work. Most medications treated symptoms, not illnesses, and drug combinations could seriously fuck somebody up. "Anything's gotta be better than a hundred days to live. Three months isn't enough." 

"No, it's really not." Rodney stepped into the gateroom, and temporarily fell quiet, even while he did a room check for the equipment they were taking through the gate. The people of Argos were reportedly very mellow, happy, intelligent people, and as long as John didn't look up in the sky and see a huge ship, he wasn't going to be worried about the mission. 

So far, they hadn't encountered any trouble other than a few Jaffa scouts a couple of weeks back, and it wasn't like they'd gone back to report anything to anybody. It'd be a safe world; otherwise John would be looking for a way to keep McKay home. 

It wasn't that he thought Rodney wouldn't be fine in a dangerous situation; John had a feeling Rodney was the kind of guy who would buckle down and work like a demon to find a solution if things got tight. The thing of it was, though, if he put Rodney in that position, he might not come out as whole as he went in, and John couldn't do that. Not to Rodney, and not to his brother. 

He had a gut feeling that the two of them weren't aware of how entangled they were, but watching the two of them together was fascinating for John and apparently creepy to some of the other people around post. 

"SG-4 is cleared for go!" 

Rodney turned, waved to Walter up in the control room -- Canadian expat, member of the poker group that only managed to get together once in a blue moon -- and turned to stomp up to the gate now that a wormhole was established. John hurried up it, getting ahead of Rodney by all of half a step. Obviously he needed to remind him to let the guy who was handy with a gun step into the event horizon first. So long as nobody shot them on the way out of the gate, it would be all right. Hell, even if somebody did, it wasn't like there would be time for John to do much more than fall backwards and be ripped to shreds by the wormhole. 

It wasn't a thought he managed to complete until he got out the other side, and by then it would've been too late to have that worry, and Rodney was coming out right beside him with the schlup schlup noise, and then Champlain and Donaldson came out behind them. 

"Hi, there." The Argosians were incredibly friendly, especially considering the fact that they were just beginning to really learn what it was like to live life day to day without aging a year in between. They also liked to meet new teams coming through the gate, or so he'd heard. "Major John Sheppard. Nice to meet you." 

Champlain and Donaldson were playing it closer to the hilt, quieter for the moment because John suspected they were trying to impress him. There was a pretty woman near the gate, and John thought it was that easy pretty woman who'd seduced Colonel O'Neill. 

"I am Kynthia. It is my pleasure to meet you, Major John Sheppard. We have been looking forward to your people coming." 

"And we've been looking forward to meeting you." At least a little. She was really pretty, after all. "I'd like to introduce you to Dr. Rodney McKay, and Lieutenants Champlain and Donaldson." 

Her smile seemed effortless, so she was probably a naturally happy person -- for now. John wasn't so sure he'd want to be there if something went wrong. These people would probably panic like mad, considering their history. 

Champlain stepped forward a little, ducking his head. He was a nice kid, with an accent that sounded thick as syrup. "Nice to meet you, ma'am. We're here to leave you supplies, take a few samples and spend some time in your old temple, if that's all right with y'all." 

"Oh, very subtle, Lieutenant." Rodney crossed his arms over his chest. "Not just your temple, but anything that Pelops might have left with you that we could study." 

Sometimes, all John wanted was to send McKay to some kind of diplomacy class. Grant would probably enjoy the thing, and Rodney would probably be miserable the whole time. "If that's all right with you." John kept smiling. "We've also brought a few things that you might be interested in. Colonel O'Neill mentioned some pretty delicious sounding fruits that we'd like to try." 

"Oh, yes! Yes, we have wonderful fruits here, more than enough to feed our people. And grains. We could share seeds?" And samples, yeah, because John's brain was already ticking while he gestured Champlain and Donaldson forward with their carry boxes. 

"Good, great. There are medical supplies in that one on the left," Rodney instructed. "Which I'm told are important for you to have. Mostly for treating injuries in efficient ways." 

"McKay." It came out, bitten from beneath his teeth. "Ma'am. If it's all right, Lieutenant Donaldson will show you the medical supplies while I remain with Dr. McKay. Champlain, would you...?" 

"Yes, sir." 

It was Champlain's pleasure, from the way he was smiling at Kynthia, and there was a boy down the way waving at them. Yeah, his two Air Force guys were going to be all right there, and McKay... McKay was oblivious, glancing around, sighting the walls of the place as if they were teeming with technology. They probably were, for all John knew, but Champlain and Donaldson were talking with Kynthia, and she was taking them outside, leaving him and Rodney alone with the nifty new alien tech he seemed to delight in so much. 

"Okay, buddy. Looks like it's all yours." 

"Do you have any idea how fantastic even dead, deactivated nanites are, as a concept and in action?" Rodney moved further into the temple, eyeing the statue. "This is all tacky decorative knick-knackery, of course. It's like the Goa'uld's highest design aspiration is off Broadway theatre, circa 1970." 

There wasn't any way to argue with that, although in some ways, all John could think about was how cool he'd thought mummies and canopic were when he was twelve. "Some of it's kind of a design nightmare," he agreed, watching Rodney get his hands on the thing. Tacky was a kindness for most of the stuff he'd seen; at least it would be if most of the stuff weren't made out of solid gold. There were other words for that kind of thing, although gaudy probably still applied. "Interior designers probably wouldn't approve." 

"I think it must speak to Goa'uld vanity. Like seven year old girls. _'I want to be the prettiest evil princess in the whole world. Someone build me a huge tacky statue!'_ " Rodney peered into the base, where the devices were tucked, and he was probably considering stripping away all of the stone of the base just to see what else was tucked in there. "It's been suggested that they stole most of the technology they use and adapted it from superior races." 

"Been suggested or been confirmed?" Wow. That would be pretty cool, wouldn't it? If there was somebody out there with more advanced tech than the Goa'uld. Well. It would only be cool if they weren't interested in blasting Earth out of orbit, but still. John shifted his P-90 in his grip and moved over to take a closer look at what McKay was doing. 

"Teal'c mentioned it. The technology of conquered planets was forefeit. Though I doubt we're very interesting as anything other than slave labor..." He was reaching down into the base, and finally leaning back, setting his P-90 down. "I have to remove some of the stones here so I can get a better look at this. Seeing as the villagers here pulled the statue down, I doubt they'll be angry if I do a little more remodeling." 

"Need some help?" Maybe he should keep standing guard, but it was unlikely anything would go so wrong he couldn't get back to covering McKay. 

"Sure. I want to try to loosen this masonry without destroying the tech behind it. Got a chisel?" Rodney seemed to be actually asking that seriously. 

Only McKay. "Well, I don't tend to carry one around in my pack, no, but I'm pretty sure we can scrounge up something..." Yeah. After all, Jackson had started providing offworld teams with basic archaeological tools, so there was bound to be one there someplace, right? One of the other military guys would probably have it, and he was pretty sure that leaving Rodney alone in the temple was okay. Rodney didn't seem to be worried about safety, since he was already crouching down, pulling at masonry with his bare hands. "Wait a minute," John said, poking at him. "You'll rip your hands up like that. Let me see what we've got in here that can be used in place of a chisel. There's gotta be a hammer, so...." 

"No, the mortar's loose," Rodney murmured, looking back over his shoulder at John. "I'd take a pen at this point. This was built ages ago, and badly." 

"Yeah, I can see where the guy building it might be in a hurry." Nanites and all. Well, and fear that the Goa'uld might smite him down any second given proper opportunity. At least, that's what would worry John. "Here we go. I've got a hammer and a flathead screwdriver." Why the hell nobody had thought a chisel was a good idea was anybody's guess. 

Rodney seemed satisfied, and carefully wedged the flathead in to start prying at bricks. "Oh, yeah, this is better. Thanks. We might get out of here before dinner now." 

John wouldn't bet on it, not with the way Rodney was massacring the use of that thing. "Tell you what, why don't you let me do that and you try scanning some of the other tacky gold stuff?" 

"No, no, this is the center of the readings I was getting. I can get to the rest later, but this was part of the component that sent the wakeup and sleep calls to the nanites. Its power unit alone is going to be impressive." 

He'd say something smart about McKay having a hardon for the thing, but they really weren't that level of familiar with one another yet. They would be; John got a good feeling for friendships that would work out, and he had that feeling about McKay. They just weren't yet. "Okay, let me work on it for you, McKay. I'm here for grunt work, y'know." Kind of. More or less. 

"Oh, well." Rodney preened a little when it was pointed out to him that he wasn't a grunt, and appealing to Rodney's ego was just as good as appealing to Goa'uld vanity. Rodney shifted, and offered John the screwdriver and hammer. "In that case, since you seem bored, I'll just take a look around." 

That wasn't good, either. "Don't wander off. You'll wanna take a look at this whenever I get it open." Plus, John would get worried if he wasn't within viewing range. The other guys, they were military. McKay wasn't, and so it was his job to look after him. He'd gotten that speech from O'Neill more than once, that he was out there to watch his men, to make sure everyone got home safely. 

"I'll just be in here." He gestured to the rest of the temple, clearly looking for anything else that could hide technology. 

In here was good enough for John, mostly, so he went to work with the hammer and the flathead, scraping it into the stone until he managed to get it up, get the compartment open to delve inside. It took a good bit of effort, but once he finally got it open, he looked around for McKay. 

McKay, who was seated on the steps, apparently intent on taking apart the power source for one of the place's lamps, and he seriously hoped Rodney was going to put it back together, because they had permission to do anything to the statue of the false god, but busted lightbulbs tended to piss people right off. 

"Hey. Rodney," he called, catching his attention. "I've got this thing opened up." 

"Oh, good. Good, all I've found here is one of those power sources they use for staff weapons, which is interesting if Teal'c ever needs a recharge. It's probably the Goa'uld version of a double A." He wandered to set the 'lamp' unsteadily back on its pedestal. 

"Yeah, good guess. Now c'mon. It always pisses people off if you go around busting their lightbulbs, Rodney." Stating the obvious usually got Rodney's attention, anyway. "There's writing on this thing." 

"Fantastic. Now I'm going to have to get photos and add it to some linguist's to-do pile." He moved in and got pictures before he disturbed anything, but most scientists would've stopped right there. After all, the initial device had been removed and taken back to the SGC when they'd pulled back after turning the nanites off. Anything else in that stone base was a bonus, and maybe just as unpredictable. 

The idea of it made John's skin creep, but it wasn't like he could do anything much about it. He stepped back, picking up his gun again, just in case, and decided to spend his time on guard eyeing Rodney's ass. 

There were worse ways to spend his time. 

* * *

> Sometimes things were good and sometimes they were so, so very bad. 
> 
> He wasn't made for relationships, he was sure of that. Charles had moved on with his life, and moving on with his life involved, for some fucked up reason, deciding to tell Rodney the cumulative notes he'd made on Rodney's mental health and some things for him to think about, like normal people dated with an exit interview in mind. 
> 
> He'd been kind of fucked up since then. 
> 
> No. No, scratch the kind of. He'd been completely madly fucked up, and somewhere along the way, he was pretty sure he'd stopped going to class. He knew Grant had, because Grant had taken to fiddling around with the two year old Mac Classic he'd picked up someplace. Rodney wasn't sure where he'd got the money for it. He was pretty sure his brother had probably given sex in exchange for the thing, or something else that most people would consider unsavory. 
> 
> Rodney just wished he'd picked up a Commodore 64. 
> 
> And it... they needed to go to class and they needed to get it together and just go, do, succeed. They were so smart, so smart that it ached, and he wanted his brother to be happy and he wanted, wanted things that he shouldn't have wanted. And that was at the root of it, that Charles had declared him all fucked up and that maybe he should get some help. 
> 
> "Mer." Grant was there, and he sounded blissed out and he looked like he hadn't washed his hair this week. At all. It was all ringlets, but dirty ones, and Rodney wanted to tell him to take a bath. He did, but he wasn't sure he'd had one, and it didn't matter so much. Not really, not when Grant was crawling into the bed with him, reaching out for him. "Meeeer." 
> 
> "Hey. Hey, I'm here." He didn't know what to do when they were both like that. It felt like the answer should've been obvious, only it wasn't and he could only reach out, reach back, pulling Grant in close. 
> 
> "I, I, I. I I. I took apart, I went through, and, and took apart, and I know how it works." Grant laughed, the sound devolving into giggles and then into hiccoughing sounds that made Rodney hurt. 
> 
> "Okay. Good." He shifted, fingers resting at the back of Grant's neck. "Good. We need to go to class. We need to... get it together again, Grant. We have to." 
> 
> He could feel Grant hitching, his entire body, all of him, and his fingers were gripping Rodney's biceps desperately. "I, I, I. I I. I I can't. I can, I can't. I can't. I can't. I need... Mer, Mer, I need. I need...." 
> 
> "What? What, you can, just say what?" If he could pull himself together, he could drag Grant with him, and that was his focal point even if he'd lost a week of time. Grant was clutching his biceps, and Rodney moved his hands to hold onto Grant better. 
> 
> It wasn't so much a surprise when Grant lifted his face and desperately, urgently kissed him. 
> 
> He melted, trying to pull Grant down because he missed what kissing felt like, wanted what human contact felt like instead of the feeling of flying to pieces because he had the problems that led him and Grant to that. That thing they'd spent years pretending wasn't there, didn't happen, that thing that Miss Vicky had told them wasn't right, wasn't something people did. 
> 
> Wasn't anything they should ever, ever do, and yet they were. They were, Grant kissing him, knee insinuating itself between Rodney's, cock hard against his hip, and Rodney could hear him whimpering his name, Mer, Mer, Mer, under his breath between every soft, clinging motion of their lips. 
> 
> Just rubbing, just pressure, just Rodney twisting his hips, trying to get his dick to rub against Grant's because that felt even better, the way that Grant's spine shivered in open, unyielding delight. 
> 
> "Mer," he murmured, and his hands, they were stripping off Rodney's dirty pajamas, fingers tripping against his hips and fluttering against the sides of his upper thigh. "Oh, Mer. I, I, I, I, I, I've missed, I've missed, this, yes, oh. Oh, Mer." 
> 
> They weren't supposed to do that. It was wrong and they weren't supposed to, but he wanted it, felt all out of joint and that was the best way to get close to Grant, close as anyone could get and it was safe. Grant was safe and loved him and Rodney shifted, squirmed out of his pants and pushed Grant's t-shirt up so he could press his fingertips against Grant's spine. "Yeah, please, I want, you, just you, Grant. You..." 
> 
> He was perfect, just perfect, this was perfect, and he wanted to crawl inside Grant, inside where it was safe, where everything would be okay again, where it could be just them, just him and Grant, together and right. Right, not wrong, no matter what anyone said, and they were chest, skin to skin, and yes. Oh, yes. "Mer..." 
> 
> Dick on dick, and his hands sliding down to Grant's hips while Grant petted at his own, and that was so good, touching him where he liked to be touched without having to ask, knowing, just knowing, and he needed to be known, needed to be, to have that. To know that was there. To know everything was going to be okay, that it was all right and wonderful, wonderfully perfect, wonderfully right. 
> 
> "Mer, Mer, Mer, Mer," Grant chanted, and they were pushing, shoving, rubbing, and Rodney could feel it, feel the rise of it in the pit of his belly, in his balls, in his spine. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 
> 
> Fuck. 
> 
> He twisted, pushed up, wanted to push Grant over and push him down and fuck against him, but he didn't because Grant was just as big as him, not that easy to lever over and he was already so close. So close, on the very edge, and then Grant did roll over, onto his back, just as easy as that, as if he knew what Rodney wanted, what he needed, and he did. He did, because Grant had always been able to read him, had always known everything, absolutely everything about him. 
> 
> It was amazing and frightening and maybe that was why they always had breakdowns together, why they blended into each other when it all went wrong. He didn't do anything but move over Grant, pushing down hard, close, close. "Please, Grant, you're, hhn, just like me, feels so good." 
> 
> "Good, good," and it was. His voice, their voice, the same, like their motions, like their touches, mirror sex, he'd always thought of it that way, and it was. Grant's thigh, sparsley-haired, rubbed against his balls, and Rodney felt his breath catch, hitch, the feel of it shuddering through him. 
> 
> Better than masturbating, better than sliding his fingers over himself, better than trying to rub up against a pillow or anything else he'd tried. He pressed his face in against Grant's, kissed at his mouth, and Grant kissed him back. Kissed him back and slid his hands down, cupped Rodney's ass, fingers curling in and just barely touching his hole, and Rodney clenched. Clenched, and gasped, and came, and Grant was there with him, shaking and stuttering, and blissed out below him. 
> 
> He could feel Grant's hard breaths echoing his own, and Rodney caught himself laughing while he rubbed, rocked slowly against Grant's thigh. "Grant, you..." Knew what might help Rodney sleep, maybe. It wouldn't fix them, never, because at the end of the day it was just hoping that Grant's medication started again and that he could, could stop losing time. 
> 
> Could stop seeing things that weren't there. Could stop hearing music. 
> 
> Could just get better. 
> 
> Could just find them both, and dig them out of this god-awful hole. 
> 
> "Love you," Grant murmured, and stroked the back of his neck. "Mer. My Mer." 
> 
> "Don't know what I'd do without you." Life a hollow, empty life, because if he'd come back for Grant and he hadn't been alive, he didn't know what he'd do. He couldn't think like that, couldn't comprehend it, so he shifted off of Grant and just held onto him. 
> 
> Held on for dear life. Held on and closed his eyes, and finally, finally.... 
> 
> Slept.

* * *

> Grant was in love. 
> 
> Madly, madly, desperately in love. The kind of love that lasted forever, or at least, he was pretty sure, until she got sick to death of him. It would happen, but Grant was okay with that. He understood that it was coming, the way that eventually, he'd have a bad patch, and Rodney would, too, and then they'd be half-mad together. And that was all right, too. 
> 
> The sun rose and set and love fell apart, but he didn't dwell on it. It was nicer to revel in the fact that just then, he loved a girl and she loved him back and it seemed all right. Better than, maybe. She was blonde and hot and in the city, out in Vegas proper, so she was probably cheating on him, according to Rodney, but Grant didn't care. He had stars in his eyes, and she was beautiful to him. 
> 
> He'd had a thing for dancers ever since they went to Vegas, and she was the best dancer of all. 
> 
> Of course, everything probably thought that, but Cathy let him take her to dinner, and they spent weekends in bed with juice for him and wine for her and a ridiculous amount of food. There was sex, and food, and movies, and more sex, and more food, and how could anyone not love that? 
> 
> She was sweet and sexy and smart, and that was the best part of all, that someone could be that good looking and sharp and witty, and smart. Smart and beautiful, with hair he could stroke his fingers through and shoulders he wanted to kiss on his way to her breasts and her beautiful stomach and legs that just didn't stop. She was smart, and she wanted to work in law enforcement someday soon, and he understood the up and down of classes. Understood how completely crazy it could make someone feel, out of control, too many classes, not enough money, no way to eat and pay for classes and pay rent and, and, and, and. 
> 
> "I, I, how would you like it if, if we went..." Grant contemplated. "...went for a vacation. Somewhere without..." He waved a hand, meaning all of it, everything. 
> 
> Cathy always knew what he meant. 
> 
> "When do we both have time?" She laughed a little when she asked it, but Grant knew that if he could scrape together the time, and she could scrape together the time, then they could. Would. 
> 
> It would be the first time in his life he had gone anywhere without Rodney, and Grant wasn't exactly sure what to think about that. Still. "We could, if you wanted, make the time. Just, just a long weekend. You think? Somewhere with..." He waved a hand. "Big, big beds. And champagne. And..." Other stuff. Cathy liked expensive things, and Grant could afford a weekend of expensive. Or four days. 
> 
> He had money, separate, because Rodney put money in an account just for him once their shared bills were paid, and Grant liked that. He had a lot of money in it and it was all his for whatever -- computers, games, clothes, things he needed, things he wanted. Once the bills were paid. "Big beds, and champagne." Cathy was smiling, and leaned in to kiss him. She had her assignments done, and he knew she picked her shifts pretty well, so... "That sounds like a beautiful weekend, Grant." 
> 
> "I, I, I thought so." He couldn't help grinning, feeling so incredibly up that it was probably worrisome, or it should be. He'd think about that later, though. "We, we could go now. If you wanted. Drive until we, until there's somewhere we want to stop." 
> 
> She twisted onto her back, and smiled at him upside down. "That's what I like about you, Grant. Give me fifteen minutes." 
> 
> Fifteen minutes, and she'd probably have five inch heels and those nifty panties that just kind of... Yeah. He loved those. "I, I'll call Rodney and let him know we're going." He'd already packed, figuring she'd be good with it. 
> 
> He was damn right about it, too. Cathy didn't answer him -- she was already slipping into her bedroom, and Grant needed to make that call and not peer at the door to see if he could catch a glimpse of her changing. That decided, he headed to the kitchen and snagged the phone, dialing Rodney's cell to let him know he'd be gone when he got home. 
> 
> The phone rang, and then rang, and then rang again, and Grant hummed to himself and wondered if Rodney had left it lying in a drawer again. 
> 
> It was likely, because Rodney said it was a bear to carry that phone, and he referred to it fondly as 'The Brick', but work wanted him to have it, and... 
> 
> _~"Hello?"~_
> 
> "Rodney!" Oh, yes, wonderful. "Rodney, I'm, we're, we're going out for the weekend. I'm, I have some time off, so Cathy and I will be, be gone. For a couple of days. Okay?" He hoped it was okay. 
> 
> He heard Rodney go quiet, and then he said, _~"Yeah. Yeah, okay. Uh... Sure, fine, when do you think you'll be back?"~_ He could almost hear the gears in Rodney's head spinning. 
> 
> "Tuesday?" Tuesday seemed like a good time to come back. Cathy had class that afternoon, she'd want to get back by then. "Is, is that good? Okay?" 
> 
> _~"Sure, yeah. Are you going to call work or should I?"~_ Will you forget, Rodney meant, and he sounded worried. Grant wished he wouldn't worry, he wished that Rodney would find and run off with someone of his own, even if it was only for a couple of weekends of wild fun sex and champagne. Which... really, that was what he was having. So why not? 
> 
> "I, I already called. When, when, before I left, actually. You're late again, Mer." 
> 
> He was quiet again, and Grant hated that, but he wasn't going to let it ruin his weekend. _~"Okay. I'll see you Tuesday, then. Be safe, okay?"~_
> 
> The urge to tell Rodney that he understood how to use condoms was incredibly strong. "You, you, too, Rodney. Be, don't stay at work the whole weekend long?" 
> 
> _~"I won't."~_ That was a lie, but it was better than Rodney staying at home all alone, Grant supposed. _~"Have fun with her. I'll... yeah. Won't hold you up any longer."~_ And then Rodney hung up. 
> 
> Grant stared at the phone for a moment and sighed. His brother needed... well. He needed, and Grant knew it was wrong and bad, because Miss Vicky said so, but... but he needed. And maybe it wasn't so wrong or bad if it meant they both kept from those dark bad places they fell into sometimes. 
> 
> He needed to find someone else who could love him unconditionally. Grant didn't need that, quite so much, because Cathy was sweet and beautiful, and when things fell apart, Grant would move on with an eye out for any other fantastic opportunities. Why say no just because it was a short-thing? That was what Rodney needed to learn. 
> 
> He heard Cathy open the door to her room, and step out. "I'm ready." 
> 
> Grant laid the phone down gently in its cradle. "Then let's... let's go." Before he decided he felt too bad, leaving Rodney alone.

* * *

> It wasn't a normal weekend at all. 
> 
> The thing of it was that Grant spent weekends with unbelievably hot women more often than Rodney could really count, yes, but that he was usually there in the morning and back that night, or if not that night then mid-morning of the next day, which was pretty good and Rodney didn't worry a third as much when that happened. 
> 
> But just running off with a woman for four days was... Something new, and Rodney wasn't used to being on his own. Not that he was really alone, because they did have Peanut Butter and Jelly, but sitting on the sofa with nothing except bad movies on TV, the cats and popcorn felt particularly lame knowing that his brother was probably having fantastic sex while he sat there and moldered. 
> 
> Moldering just wasn't going to work, not if he didn't want to molder a lot more, because one day, he'd be left there, alone, and he'd... he'd turn into the kind of person who stopped going anywhere or doing anything. He'd let the junk mail pile up, and he'd never wash the sheets or cook for himself or anything, because Grant would eventually figure out that he didn't need Rodney to take care of him or to make sure he took his meds or... or anything. 
> 
> And then, well. Then Rodney had nothing. Nothing at all, and he needed to get out more, because his brother was doing better socially than he was, and eight years ago anyone would've laughed at him if he'd suggested it. But there it was. Grant, and hot dancer chick. 
> 
> Rodney needed to get up and do something. Have something other than his work and the cats and the coal scuttle by the door filled with sick, perverted letters from their mother, and that thought made him want to crawl into bed and cover his head with a pillow. 
> 
> Christ. He had to get up. He really did. 
> 
> He levered himself up, and decided that he needed to just... get himself dressed up and go out and see what happened. If anything happened. Grant was the one who was better at just going out and doing, meeting people, finding things to keep him occupied. He was better at it, but Rodney needed to stop thinking about Grant, needed to think about something, anything, except his brother. Anything except.... 
> 
> Jelly wound around his ankles before he started moving, stumbling towards the bathroom and the shower. 
> 
> Shower, shave, wash up, get himself cleaned up and dressed well and he'd just see what there was that he could get himself into. Just go out and do do do. 
> 
> Oh God. He was in hell, but he managed to get himself into the shower anyway, himself and Peanut Butter, who had a sick enjoyment of showers and baths and things cats should never relish in the way he did. 
> 
> He was happy, though, yowling up at Rodney while the water fell down over his head and shoulders, prancing in circles and stepping on his toes with claws out. The shampoo shouldn't have been an issue for the cat, and Rodney knew that there was no kicking him out of the shower that was going to end well. Especially since he didn't have any clothes on, and Peanut Butter had plenty of fur. 
> 
> He managed to get himself clean with a minimal amount of blood and pain, and hey. That was an accomplishment in and of itself, even with the mournful yowling as the cat made its way around the bottom of the tub, licking at the drain. 
> 
> "One day I'm going to get a vet to psychoanalyze you," Rodney promised Peanut Butter, moving to towel himself dry. After a minute, Peanut Butter hopped out of the tub that their showerhead hung over, and Rodney threw a towel at him. It seemed to make him pretty happy, because he proceeded to play Lump under it, rolling and pushing and clawing, and oh, God. He was turning into the creepy old cat lady that lived three blocks away, and so he fumbled for deodorant and managed to get some on. He scrabbled together shaving supplies and lathered his face before going to work with the razor. 
> 
> Loving one's pets was one thing. Considering staying at home with one's pets when his own brother was having a wild weekend was completely another. "Okay. I'm going to go out, look good, and get myself a piece of tail." 
> 
> There was bound to be somebody out, just waiting to be picked up, wanting a good time, right? Somebody. Anybody, so long as he wasn't sitting home alone and moping about it. That was the important thing, in the end. That he got out and at least faked having a good time, even if he didn't feel it. 
> 
> He stepped out into the bedroom, and decided to throw on his best clothes. Nice shirt, nice pants, socks. If he wasn't careful, he was going to get that going to a job interview look. 
> 
> Out of desperation, he dug a little deeper into their closet, scowling at the contents. Between him and Grant, they had more plaid flannel shirts than half of Seattle, and a bunch of long-sleeved shirts. The desert got cold at night, and neither of them believed in being uncomfortable. It led to a disturbingly bland closet, although.... 
> 
> Rodney dug a little deeper in one of their drawers and managed to scrounge up a pair of black jeans. At least that was better than the khakis he'd gotten together first shot. 
> 
> They made his ass look good, and that was the general goal. A bland shirt and good jeans were better than khakis and flannel, and Rodney took a moment to try to get his hair to do something attractive. Pretty much anything would be an improvement over the way it had looked before the shower, and it didn't take long to get it looking okay. He grabbed the bottle of cologne Grant kept, used as little as possible, and abandoned the mirror to head for the door and his shoes. 
> 
> Jelly and Peanut Butter both seemed to sense the fact that he was wearing black jeans, and it took some quick movement to get past them without getting cat hair everywhere. He was pretty sure they had a lint roller in the car from the last time Grant had worn his black jacket to the office after one of the cats tried to nest in it, so he slid on a pair of shoes and headed out the door, keys in hand. 
> 
> He wasn't going to be picky. He was just going to drive out to the city, hit the first club or gay bar he could find, and see if they had low enough standards to let him in. It almost made Rodney laugh when he started his car up. Any club that wanted him... 
> 
> By the time he got into town, he'd remembered that there were an ungodly number of people also driving and most of them were idiots. Complete and total idiots, and quite probably dangerous, as well. Drunk or high, at least half of them, so he started to look for the telltale sights of gay bars. Lassos and vests, except he didn't exactly feel up to faux cowboys or leather. That was, kinks, were too much for Rodney. He couldn't face that kind of thing, couldn't face guys in skirts and fishnet stockings, and God. He was so terribly boring. He had no idea why anybody would want to sleep with him. 
> 
> He finally saw a place that looked about right -- anything called Cherry just about had to be, anyway -- so he started looking for somewhere to park 
> 
> The main lot was full, but the badly paved overflow lot looked all right, and he doubted anyone was going to steal his car. Not when there were so many other, nicer cars to walk off with. 
> 
> He just had to steel himself for going in. 
> 
> There were people walking by, full of laughter and smiles, all headed for the door. He seemed to have chosen well -- the couples were same-sex, although the groups were mixed, so he slid his keys into his pocket and headed for the door. Shoulders back, chin up, deep breath, and try to look relaxed. Rodney hoped it was working, and he produced an ID for the man at the door and the money for the cover charge. 
> 
> Inside, the club was filled with smoke, which was no surprise, and music and lights that were even less of one. Rodney was tempted to ask for a drink, but that always left him with a deadly fear of citrus, so he asked for a beer instead. 
> 
> And not a Corona. 
> 
> The beer was American, so it was going to be bad, but if he got a buzz it wouldn't kill him and he could crash out at one of the local hotels before he made the drive home. It wasn't like he needed to rush back sober or anything because Grant was up to his ears in muff by now. So he sipped the beer and leaned in the bar while he scanned the crowd. 
> 
> It was a little wild, and there was a group in one corner that obviously seemed to be having some kind of party -- birthday, by the look of it, because there was at least one guy wearing a stupid conical hat, and there was cake. Rodney could go for cake, he thought, and took a long swig off of the bottle. 
> 
> Did it count as crashing a birthday party if somebody held it in a gay bar in the first place? 
> 
> The birthday boy, and that was all presumption but Rodney wasn't usually wrong when he presumed, looked cute, pretty face, wild hair sticking out around the hat. His eyes were rimmed with black, and he seemed incredibly happy to be where he was. For some reason, he appealed to Rodney in ways he hadn't thought anyone would, considering the way he felt at the moment. 
> 
> Still. It was worth a shot, and probably better while they were both still mostly sober -- at least he assumed the guy was mostly sober, because he looked like they hadn't been there long. After all, they were just cutting the cake. 
> 
> It was just a matter of figuring out how and where to start. Did he try a sleazy pickup line, or just loom awkwardly until someone noticed him? Or play cool observer while he made up his mind. Usually he fell into things -- great fellow mind, conversation occurred somehow, and things went from there. 
> 
> In his current state of mind, he couldn't decide what to do or where to go. Hell. He'd been lucky to decide on what to wear when he went out the front door, so he took another swig, and when he looked up, the guy was cutting through people and heading for the bar, right where Rodney was sitting. 
> 
> Possibly he was about to be told off for staring all wrong, but Rodney threw out his best smile and decided to pretend he was a used car salesman and see where it got him. Feigning confidence usually meant that the real thing followed. 
> 
> "Hey, can I get a B-52?" The guy was a little loud, but it was hard to hear much over the solid thud of the music. He turned his back on the bar and grinned at Rodney, all wriggling pleasure. "Hi. It's my twenty-second." 
> 
> "Now the hat and the cake make sense," Rodney grinned back. "Happy Birthday, then. I'm Rodney." 
> 
> "Greg Sanders." He held out his hand and Rodney reached out and clasped it in return, swaying towards Rodney a little. He wasn't sure if the guy was already that drunk or if he was just flirting. The way his eyes flicked down and then lingered on the way back up suggested the latter. "Nice to meet you, Rodney." 
> 
> That was nice, and about as subtle as a sledgehammer, enough to make Rodney's smile grow. "Nice to meet you. I'd ask what brings you here, but the party hat explains it all. Are you a local?" 
> 
> "Nah. Not exactly. I'm just visiting, because hey, spring break. Anything's better than New York when it's still winter, you know? Plus, birthday. Great excuse." Greg looked him up and down again, and yeah. Oh yeah. That was definite interest. "You wanna maybe join us? Couple tables that way." 
> 
> "Sure. You're here from New York?" He shifted to move off of the barstool in a slow gesture, hoping that it looked good because Greg was still watching. Hopefully he'd appreciate the view, and he seemed to. Mostly. 
> 
> "Yeah!" The music was gearing up again, but Greg yelled to make up for it. "Finishing up my Masters in Albany. Chemistry, but I want to go into forensic sciences." 
> 
> "Is that another degree, or just a different field?" People, academics, were generally eager to talk about themselves, which Rodney knew first hand. 
> 
> "Applicable field." Greg nudged himself forward, into Rodney's space. "DNA extraction, that kind of thing. Law enforcement labs, FBI, that kind of thing." 
> 
> "Huh. I don't know much about chemistry -- I'm a physicist, out at Nellis. But anything with the local law enforcement would be a pretty good gig." Greg's space smelled interesting, like chocolaty booze and hair product, and hell. Hell. He leaned in to kiss him. The worst that could happen would be getting decked, and he didn't think that was going to happen. 
> 
> Rodney was going to be polite about it -- not go straight in, all tongue and heat. Greg didn't seem to think there was any other way to kiss, though, because after the first couple of soft-lipped nuzzles, it turned luscious, salacious. 
> 
> Amazing. He let his lips part, and tried to come back at Greg with it, letting things go less polite, and maybe it'd go less polite in general. It was Vegas, and neither of them was from the area, so maybe Greg had a hotel room, and Rodney was getting ahead of himself but he liked the way Greg kissed. It was hungry and a little desperate and strangely sweet. 
> 
> "Hey, Greggo!" Somebody was yelling, but Greg didn't seem to be inclined to stop. When he finally pulled back, Rodney felt almost dizzy from the blood rushing into his cock. 
> 
> "Gimme a minute," Greg murmured. "We can... do you.. I've got a hotel room." 
> 
> "A hotel room sounds great," Rodney mumbled back. "Really, really, unbelievably great right now. Your friends know where to find you?" He hoped so -- he didn't want to crash their party. 
> 
> "They're staying in the same place. Gimme five minutes." One had turned to five, but what the hell. "I'll meet you outside. Okay?" 
> 
> "Okay, sure..." He wasn't going to say no, and if it cost him the cover charge because he had to go back in, hell. It was worth it to leave the too-loud music and focus on the feeling of lips against his own, and how much he wanted that intimacy. 
> 
> He kept his beer in hand and headed for the door, not really believing that he was having that kind of luck. Hell, he hadn't even been in the bar half an hour, so maybe it was a sign. Maybe it was just supposed to go that way. That he was supposed to get a little fun out of the weekend, do something a little extraordinary for Rodney. He took another swig off of the bottle and moved past the people heading in at the door. 
> 
> He found a spot a few feet down from the door and leaned against the bricks of the building, working on finishing his beer. He was there long enough to do that, and he was starting to think Greg wasn't coming out after all. 
> 
> It wouldn't have surprised him, but it did leave him wondering what, specifically, had driven Greg off. His breath was nice, he'd showered, hair was clean... So, not hygiene, which took him to the kissing. Maybe he'd done it badly, been too enthusiastic, been... 
> 
> "Sorry. Took me a minute to convince Robert I had the right to, you know. Make decisions for myself." Greg was there, looking at him from beneath his lashes. "You, uh. You got a car? I've got the name of the hotel, directions in my pocket." 
> 
> "Yeah, I have a car. And I swear I'm not a serial killer. I'm just a boring guy who works on engineering for the Air Force. Oh! And I'm Canadian, which should put me one lever deeper into the safety level." Americans always seemed to think that Canada was a magic land of milk and honey for some reason, and Rodney wasn't above using that if he needed to. 
> 
> Greg grinned. "Yeah, well, I didn't really think you were a serial killer or anything. If I had, I wouldn't have put my tongue in your mouth." 
> 
> "That's a sign of good taste," Rodney grinned, fishing into his pocket for his keys. "I'm parked over this way." 
> 
> This way, and Greg followed him like it was just that easy, and even Rodney knew this was a bad idea, taking strangers home or back to a hotel room. It was that or sit at home and mope about his brother, though, so he let both of them into the car and cranked it before asking about the directions. Greg handed them over on a paper scrabbled out of his back pocket, and it wasn't too far. 
> 
> "Are you guys in town for long?" It was small conversation, when he was bad enough at it. He'd probably get nervous and seriously fuck up and this would end in disaster. 
> 
> The younger man was slumped in the passenger side seat, seeming drowsy instead of turned on. "Just a week. Well, a week Sunday, actually, so for a couple more days." He turned a knee-weakening bright grin on Rodney. "But that's still another few days, really. If you're interested." 
> 
> "I've got a little free time. I'm definitely interested." He was glad that years of hard cars made it easier for him to take one hand off of the steering wheel, to slide it over to touch Greg's knee. It seemed to do the trick, because he sprawled out a little further, one hand sliding down to push against his own cock. 
> 
> "God. Me, too. I mean... yeah. You're... Yeah." And maybe Greg was a little drunker than Rodney really would have preferred in someone he was planning to fuck, but God that was hot. 
> 
> Hot and happy and he was going to make sure it was good for Greg. He knew how to make sex good for all parties, because that was important, more important than most people would consider. "Yeah." He laughed a little, and watched as Greg shoved the heel of his hand down again, just a little rough. 
> 
> "So. You, uh. Want to fuck me?" 
> 
> "Oh, god yes. Unless you don't, I mean..." Rodney shifted, moved his hand to stroke over Greg's. "I'm kind of polite until I get a feel for what someone prefers." 
> 
> There was a pause, and then another of those grins. "I like it when things feel amazingly good. Who doesn't?" 
> 
> It was hard not to keep smiling. "You'd be surprised. But yeah, sex is best when it's... good. Fantastic." 
> 
> "Dirty?" Oh, yeah. Definitely dirty, and Rodney was hardly paying attention to traffic because Greg was tugging his zipper down and peeking at him from the corner of his eyes. "Because I really think I'd enjoy dirty." 
> 
> "Dirty I can do." He slept with his brother when the occasion warranted, but that wasn't something to bring up in conversation. Rodney smiled slyly back at Greg, and shifted his hand as best as he could without eyes to see it, trying to find the outline of Greg's cock. 
> 
> "Nnnnhuh." He'd found it, and he used his hand to shape it through thin cotton, hot and hard and Jesus, fuck. If they kept this up, they'd have to pull over and chance getting arrested. "Oh God." 
> 
> He was definitely up to leaning over to blow Greg, blow him fast and sloppy, and hopefully they could get to the parking lot before that happened. Rodney exhaled. "You're so fucking hard. You want it that bad, huh? You want me to fuck you that badly?" 
> 
> "Oh God yeah. Yeah, I want... I want... we'll need to stop and get stuff. Condoms and lube and...." And not so much because Rodney had those things in his bag. "I want fucking." 
> 
> "I brought that stuff with me. In my overnight bag." Rodney grinned as he tried to curl his fingers around Greg's dick through his underwear. It worked, mostly, and the fact that it got him a breathy laugh was pretty good, too. 
> 
> "I.. unh. I can appreciate a man who thinks ahead. Hotel. Soon. 'cause... yeah." 
> 
> "We're almost there." According to the vague directions and Rodney's relatively decent sense of direction. "What was the hotel name again? Is that it over there?" 
> 
> "Yeah. With the... yeah," Greg said, and shifted so that Rodney's hand came off of his cock. He reached for his zipper, grimacing as he tugged it up. "Ugh." 
> 
> "We'll take care of that first thing in your room," Rodney promised, moving his hand back to the steering wheel so he could whip into a parking space. It only took a minute to get the car in park and turn off the ignition. Greg was already scrambling out, reaching into his pocket for the key card. 
> 
> "C'mon. We're on the second floor," he said, and Rodney opened his door, popping the trunk. He just grabbed his overnight bag, closed the trunk, locked the car so he could follow after Greg. He looked pretty steady on his feet, and he was heading inside at a fair clip. 
> 
> The doors came open automatically, and Greg headed over bizarrely patterned carpet past the front desk clerk. She didn't seem interested in them in any way, and Rodney wasn't entirely sure that she hadn't been smoking pot before they came in. The smell of it kind of lingered. He was pretty sure that their air freshener didn't smell that sweet, because he was sure that the place didn't use air freshener. Catching up with Greg was easy, no matter how hard he was, and the elevator door was dinging open as he got there. 
> 
> "Sorry. About the hotel, you know. It's, uh... It was cheap." Greg shrugged. "But the sheets really are clean. I went and got a fresh set myself." 
> 
> "I shared an apartment in college that looked like this," Rodney grinned, setting his bag on the edge of the bed to dig out what they were going to need. 
> 
> There was a rueful look lingering on Greg's face. "Yeah, well, now that you mention it, me, too." 
> 
> "So, it's pretty nice as far as cheap hotels go," Rodney decided, setting condoms and lube on the bedspread. "Do you want to pick up where we were?" 
> 
> "Oh, God, yes." Greg was already reaching for the hem of his t-shirt, tugging it up over his head, and yeah. Rodney could appreciate that, pale bare skin with a faint smattering of hair in the center, spreading out towards nipples. Greg dropped it by the bed and gave him a self-conscious smile. 
> 
> Rodney exhaled, and reached a hand out to thumb one of those nipples. "You're amazingly good looking, Greg. Mmm." He did better the closer he got, leaning in to kiss the other nipple. He could feel the reaction as much as anything, the jerk of that almost too skinny body. 
> 
> "Oh, God. Yeah. That's... that's pretty good. Actually. Nnn." Just a little pressure, a little nibble, the feel of it hardening against his tongue when he pressed it flat against skin. Fantastic. Now he just had to get Greg to sit down, and a few gentle pushes got him to nudge over, back onto the bed. Rodney followed him down, and even though he didn't want to let go, he let Greg move up to the head of the bed before settling in beside him. 
> 
> It was easier that way, and Rodney wanted to start by blowing him. "I want to suck you, fuck you, and put you away wet." 
> 
> The sound that got him was amazing, a low moan that made him even harder. "Oh my God. That sounds..." Then he was shifting, moving to scrabble his pants open with shaking hands and pushing them down, over his hips. Greg got them off, underwear and all, and yeah. This was going to be good. 
> 
> Greg's cock was nice -- full, hard, flushed red at the head, curving a little to the left and up towards his own stomach. Once he'd looked, he shifted, moved to kiss Greg's stomach while he wrapped a hand around it and jacked, slow and easy. It made Greg shake under him, and Rodney could appreciate that, especially since he reached up to thread his fingers in his own hair instead of reaching down to hold Rodney's. 
> 
> That was beautiful, and he leaned a little to peek up at that before he pressed his mouth against the crown, a delicate motion that seemed to make Greg shudder, nonetheless, made him shift a little underneath that touch. 
> 
> He didn't waste time, sucking hard, sliding his lips down Greg's dick, letting his eyes flutter closed. After a minute, Greg's clutching hands shifted down to Rodney instead, closing on his shoulders tight. He pushed up, a little, and yeah. Rodney could appreciate that, especially when he gave some kind of garbled mutter that he couldn't actually hear. 
> 
> He was probably fantasizing about someone else, but Rodney didn't care. He was enjoying the taste, the slow shifts, and he concentrated on sucking, sliding his mouth up and down. He slid his fingers down, cupped Greg's balls, and yeah. That got him a buck, an unsteady shudder, and Greg was talking a little louder, now, something that sounded like a desperate prayer. 
> 
> "Fuck, fuck, Jesus, fuck, oh my God, fuck, fuck, fuck, touch, just, just, oh my God, oh my God..." 
> 
> Whatever kind of god replied to that kind of prayer, Rodney wanted to meet. But he sucked harder, smiling around Greg's cock because that kind of desperate chant was sweet to hear, good to know he could make that happen. Make someone so desperate, and then Greg was pulling at him, babbling out a warning, and that had been pretty fast, all things considered. But Greg was a little drunk and a little happy, and Rodney didn't care because he swallowed, fingers curling against Greg's hips, and then Greg came. 
> 
> It was a bad idea, doing this without a condom or something, anything, but Rodney hadn't thought about it, and now he was feeling reckless and desperate, so he swallowed anyway. Swallowed, salt and musky taste on the back of his tongue, and Greg making embarrassing sounds above him. 
> 
> Rodney pulled back, and smiled at Greg, trying to gauge just how embarrassed embarrassed was. "Hi." 
> 
> "Oh my God," Greg said again, sounded drugged and a little fucked out. Rodney really hoped he wasn't. 
> 
> "You doing okay?" And was that what normal people asked in random sexual encounters? Rodney couldn't even remember. 
> 
> Greg picked up his head, slowly. "I think I came my brains out," he managed finally. "You want to...?" 
> 
> "You have no idea how much I want to. Maybe you can come again?" Rodney moved, sitting up and pulling his shirt off. That seemed to give Greg the energy to shift again. 
> 
> "I'm twenty-two. I can come all night." He gave a slow, curling smirk. "Or at least a couple more times." 
> 
> "I'll work it out of you," Rodney promised. It was an easy promise to make, because Greg was all loose limbed and Rodney was pretty sure he wasn't going to be that fast to shoot off. He stepped off the bed to take his pants off, and Greg rolled over, watching him strip. The way his eyes widened when Rodney's cock was free was something that made him feel... well. Huge. 
> 
> "Okay. I can, uh, appreciate that. In more ways than one." 
> 
> Rodney reached down to idly stroke himself once he was free of pants, shoes, socks, the whole nine yards. "That's good to hear." 
> 
> An unsteady breath shuddered out of Greg and then he rolled over, left knee crooked up, right thigh spread out and flat on the bed. "So. Why don't we see how many times you can get it out of me then?" 
> 
> It was easy to grab a condom and lube on his way back to kissing Greg, trying to inject a little romance into the hot and dirty. He seemed like the kind of guy who'd appreciate romance as much as he would the other, in a funny kind of way, and yeah. Yeah, because his hands came up, curved at Rodney's shoulders, pulled him closer. 
> 
> The kissing was nice, relaxed, and Rodney let his hands roam, let himself explore the too-skinny body, and Rodney remembered being that way, all bones and juts and sinew, but he'd gotten better, built out with age. Broadened, and the way Greg's hands shifted, pressed flat against him, seemed appreciative of that fact. Seemed appreciative of a lot of things. 
> 
> "I like this," he murmured finally, and Rodney wished that he'd thought to turn off the lights, leave the one in the bathroom on, make everything a little less glaring. "This is... yeah." 
> 
> "Hold on." That way they could sleep afterwards, and Rodney sort of liked that idea. Relaxing. He got up, took care of that in quick succession, and came back to the bed. "Hotel candlelight." 
> 
> Christ. He could fall in love with that bright, almost triangular grin. "I love the way you think." Loved it, and he was obviously horny again. 
> 
> Sometimes the best kind of love involved a hard dick. At least, it tended to in Rodney's experience, and he kissed Greg again, reaching for the condom. The wrapper crackled under his fingers, and Greg shifted beneath him, pulling away for a minute. 
> 
> "Can I?" he asked, hand fumbling down Rodney's forearm to his wrist. "If it's okay." 
> 
> "Yeah. I'd rather if you did." It looked better that way, watching someone else sliding a condom over his dick. He gave it to Greg and laid back, watching as his shaking fingers ripped the wrapper at the edge. He tugged out the condom, settled it the crown of Rodney's cock, empty tip squeezed, and started rolling it down over the length of his dick. 
> 
> He looked up at Rodney, dark eyes through his lashes. "You're kind of thick," he murmured finally, licking his lips. 
> 
> Was he? Huh, that was kind of interesting to note, but Grant was just like him and Charles had been... well, Charles was a dick he'd been up close and personal with, and he'd been longer, a little more slender. "Really?" 
> 
> Yeah. There was that grin again. "Are you kidding? I've seen silicon like this, but, uh. Yeah. Really." And he was shifting, moving so that Rodney could get at him again. 
> 
> "Huh. I definitely need to get around more." He decided to take his time, kissing Greg again, sliding lube onto his fingertips so he could slide them against Greg's asshole. Slip them there, push them in, one at a time, feel him clasp tight around each one. 
> 
> The bathroom light spilled across them, and he could see Greg's face, see his eyes slide shut as he shifted back, laid himself open for Rodney's touch. 
> 
> "You're beautiful like this," Rodney sighed, sliding one finger in slowly, scooting down so he could kiss the inside of Greg's thigh. It seemed like a good idea -- sliding down, getting to a point where he could see it, see what he wanted. 
> 
> "Oh, God," Greg murmured, and took in a deep breath. "I'm glad you think so." Very glad, from the look of things, because his cock was mostly hard again, and he was spreading his legs wider for Rodney's touch. His brows were drawn together, and his mouth was open, and for a minute, just a minute, he was tense. When he let loose, Rodney started moving again, easy. Easy. 
> 
> "I do," Rodney told him, sliding that finger in and out slowly before he started to work a second one in. Sometimes half the fun of fucking was the preparation, and Greg seemed to agree with him. He was flushed in the bathroom light, chest hitching up and down, and he was pushing thrusting himself onto Rodney's fingers and clenching tight around them. 
> 
> It seemed like he might come just from that, just from Rodney sliding those two fingers in and out of his ass. "Are you ready for one more?" Because Rodney was. Ready to slip in one more, ready to push his cock inside. 
> 
> "Yeah." Greg was panting, shaking a little, and that was hot, too. Amazing to see, and it made Rodney feel like a god. 
> 
> He didn't usually feel like that, and it was hard not to grin wildly while he pulled those two fingers back before sliding the third in beside the other two. "So damn tight." 
> 
> "Fuuuuck." Fuck, yes, and Greg moaned loudly, twisting under him, thighs twitching against Rodney's chest. "Fuck, fuck. Oh my God." 
> 
> "Yeah. You're amazing, you're..." He twisted the fingers again, just working them slowly in and out, and it wasn't exactly his dick, but. His dick had some give to it and his fingers didn't. They were thick and pushing, slow and easy, and Greg was panting, starting to mumble pleas and desperate sounds that made Rodney move, made him slide up the length of that slim body, fingers lingering behind. 
> 
> "You ready?" He hoped he was, because his dick felt like it was going to pop. He was so hard he could probably pound a nail through a six-inch board with it. 
> 
> "Not going to get any readier." Greg was looking at him, hot-eyed and desperate, pushing onto his hand, ass tight and clenching, and fuck. Fuck, yes. 
> 
> He wanted that. He wanted to be in Greg, and he pulled his fingers out of Greg's ass so he could drizzle more lube over the condom before he pushed into him. Rodney used his hand, spread slickness over himself, and then moved, slid between those wide-open legs. His cock pushed along Greg's crack, caught for a moment on the rim of his asshole, and then he pulled back, aimed a little better, and began to work his way inside. 
> 
> "Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!" Fuck, yes, and the tight clench of him was good, so good. 
> 
> And once he was all the way in, fingers sliding along Greg's legs, Rodney decided that he needed to get out more often, just for opportunities like that.

* * *

> Rodney's week had been a fucked up mess. 
> 
> Grant knew it, of course. He'd spent a week being his brother, and even then, he'd not been quite... right. Not well, if Grant was honest about it, and that was worrisome. Grant had weeks that were a fucked up mess, had whole days of being a fucked up mess, but he also had drugs and a therapist and doctors. Rodney just kept refusing to believe that he needed anything like that. 
> 
> Rodney wanted to keep the good job, of course, but it went back to Rodney falling apart and only Grant could really fix it and even then he knew it was like tying a muffler in place with panty hose. Nylon only had a certain level of tensile strength at that heat, and eventually it gave. He could hug his brother together but eventually, he wouldn't be enough. It made him sad. 
> 
> So, he'd left the car at the base, cadged a ride home from the lieutenant who lived down the street. He'd decided to spend the time cooking, although he hadn't gotten exotic. Tomato soup, some chocolate and pecan biscuits. He had grilled cheese ready to start whenever Rodney finally got home. Comfort food was always helpful. 
> 
> Rodney got home late, but not as late as he'd expected for when his brother went off the rails. He heard the car roll up, heard Rodney's keys in the door, and it was late, late-late. Not too late for food, but still. Grant's job didn't usually take up that kind of time in a day, so it was a sign, and it wasn't really a good one. 
> 
> "I'm in the kitchen," he called, hearing the front door shut. For a minute, he didn't think Rodney would come his way, but then he heard footsteps, and the cats, so. 
> 
> Jelly was chortling at Rodney, and he could see Rodney stoop down in the doorway to pick her up, and Rodney didn't look good when he stood upright. His eye was black, to start with, and that was just... very bad. 
> 
> "Mer." Grant said it slowly, gently, leaving the grilled cheese sitting in the toaster, untoasted. "Mer, come here. Come, come, come to me." 
> 
> He was clutching Jelly close with one hand, and she seemed happy with that, kneading his shoulder, and Mer looked sad, broken, and Grant hated that. "I... I hate other people." 
> 
> Oh. Oh. That was... That was very bad. So bad, in fact, that Grant turned off the stove altogether and moved to him, taking Rodney's face in his hands gently and peering at his eye. "I, I, let me help. Let me, tell me what happened. Or, or don't. If you don't want to." 
> 
> "I just wanted to unwind, clear my head. I picked the, the wrong bar, the wrong guy, I don't know, it, I mean, why would you go to a gay bar if you don't like men? What kind of stupid, stupid shit is that?" Jelly squirmed free, hopped onto the kitchen island. 
> 
> Oh. 
> 
> Grant pulled him in, hand cupping against the back of Rodney's neck, holding him close. "People. People are stupid, and, and if, if you got his tag number, I'll, we'll blow it up. His car." 
> 
> Rodney gave a jagged laugh, and it sounded sharp at the edges, painful to Grant. "I, I think that's a felony. He was some, some military shit on TDY, he, I just need to give up. Trying, trying to go out and connect and, I'm, I can't do this." 
> 
> Except he could, he really could when he wasn't messed up, when he wasn't having the kind of week he was having. The kind of week Grant had sometimes, but he had things and people who helped him through. Rodney wouldn't admit he needed those things. "You don't have to. Don't have to do anything you don't want to, Mer. Not. Not ever, not ever. No matter what." 
> 
> "You're so good at it. You make it look effortless. I, every time, it's the wrong choice or the wrong, the wrong, I don't know." He was hugging onto Grant now, loose and miserable, and his eye had to hurt. They should get something on it, but it would take a minute. 
> 
> "No," he said finally, petting his brother. "No. You're, you're just, you don't have all of the help I have. That's all. That's all. Let me... You need food. And, and you need something to put on your eye." 
> 
> "I'm nothing without you. Just a worker, you're my only, only friend, anything, and you're going to be fine and go one day and it's going to be just me and I'm afraid of that day but I can't seem to not go out and fuck up normal things, people go to bars all the time they don't have happen what, they don't." It was easy to move Rodney, as long as he was talking. 
> 
> Easy to keep him on the right track, to all of the things that Grant could do for him. Everything Grant could do for him, because sometimes there wasn't any other choice, and no matter what Miss Vicky said, it wasn't wrong. Not if it made them right. Not if it made them better. "Let me... I'll get ice. For your eye, and we'll eat. And then, then, we'll go to bed." 
> 
> And whatever happened, happened. If Rodney slept and cried and talked more and held onto him, okay, and if other things happened, okay. It was Friday and they had the weekend and Grant didn't have any plans for the weekend. Just his brother. "Okay. I, you shouldn't have waited up for me." 
> 
> He pushed, moved, settled Rodney in a chair finally. "I'll always, always wait up for you. Always, because you're my brother. You're my brother and I, I love you. So. So sit. And we'll, I'll get you soup and, and I'll make the, I'll finish the sandwiches. And get something for your, we have frozen peas. For your eye." 
> 
> Laying it out just like Rodney did, because Rodney would appreciate that. He wiped at his nose with the back of his hand, then his eyes. "Sorry. I. I'm going to go shower and change and come back." 
> 
> Okay. That would give him time to get the sandwiches ready, to finish everything and get something for Rodney's eye. It'd make him feel a little better, too, probably. "Oh, oh. Okay." 
> 
> Rodney wandered off, nodding, moving pointedly, heading for the master bath, and that was good. He had time to finish everything, and he had Jelly on the table, and Rodney might tell him what happened. Not that he couldn't get the general gist of things, considering. If he found out what bar Rodney was at, maybe he could see what kind of surveillance systems they had. Convince somebody to let him look at it, see who'd hit Rodney. Something. Blow up the guy's car. It'd make Grant feel better, even if it wouldn't do much for Rodney. 
> 
> He wasn't sure what would fix Rodney, except getting him to talk to a therapist again. Something. Anything. 
> 
> Grant was starting to get worried, but then Rodney was coming back, pink and buffed, hair wild, wrapped up in a soft bathrobe. "Hi." 
> 
> "H-hi." Grant ladled out soup and took it to the table, the smell of toasting bread pleasantly wafting past. "Sit. Eat. You'll, it'll make you feel better, some. Eating always does." 
> 
> "I'm sorry. I, I need to stop this." He swallowed air, leaning his elbows on the table. "Have you taken your meds?" 
> 
> "They're, I was keeping them for now. With food," Grant told him, and went to fetch their sandwiches, nice and toasted, just perfect for eating, and the peas he had wrapped up in a thin cloth for Rodney to press against his eye. 
> 
> He handed it over, and Rodney grimaced while he pressed it against his eye. "God. I, I'm so glad to be home. So glad. I think this is the end of me going to bars." 
> 
> Dammit. Dammit, because Rodney, Mer, he needed to go out. He needed to meet people, not mope at home or date people Grant brought home. It never seemed to work out properly, in any way. "Mer, Mer." He didn't have the heart to say anything more about it. "Mer, eat your, eat your dinner." 
> 
> There was a sad, miserable look on Rodney's face, but he picked up his sandwich and started to eat, and Grant didn't know what to say to fix anything. He didn't have anything to say, because he knew, knew what he'd have to do, and even then, it wouldn't help. Wouldn't make Rodney feel any better. "I, I have some, there's vanilla. Ice cream. If you want. After." 
> 
> "Sure." Rodney glanced at the clock, probably gauging what they could do before it was 'bedtime'. Not really time to watch a movie, not at nine in the evening. Not any of the good ones, at least. "TV?" 
> 
> "Maybe." Maybe, and Grant settled down to his own soup and sandwich, watching Rodney as he ate. He looked miserable, dazed and unhappy, and Grant hated it. Hated it so much. "We, we, there's _Frasier_ ," he offered, because that would be a good way to spend a bit of fairly mindless time. Time for Rodney to try and get his mind back in the proper place. He was going to devote his weekend to that, and hopefully by Monday, Rodney would be Rodney again. 
> 
> Like getting the pieces into the right places. "Okay, yeah. Thanks for making dinner, by the way. This is... good to come home to." 
> 
> "I, I, I don't mind. Not ever, you know. Because. Because you're my, we're brothers. You and me." That wasn't a very good explanation, but it was true. 
> 
> And Rodney understood it without having to need it explained to him. "I know. I just... really appreciate it." Seeing as he was holding a bag of peas to his black eye. 
> 
> Grant took that, all of it, at face value, and dug into his soup. It was good and tomato-y, salty, and it went well with grilled cheese. He hoped Rodney liked it as much, and he really hoped that it would make him feel better -- comfort food, when he needed it. 
> 
> Comfort food for people who needed to be comforted. The cats got into the act, and Rodney absently fed Peanut Butter bits of toasted bread until the cats wandered off. He ate everything, and then shifted with one hand to try to gather up dishes for cleaning in a helpful way. 
> 
> "I, I. I'll get it. Take care of it. Let me get, you want ice cream?" Grant stood up and started to shuffle their dishes and silverware together. They'd eaten all of the soup and their sandwiches, so there wasn't anything to put away. Nothing to worry about, just things that needed to be rinsed out. They could deal with washing up in the morning. 
> 
> Would. It wasn't as if the kitties ever jumped into the sink. "Yeah. It might... I'll be in the living room, okay?" With the pea-bag still held loosely against his eye. 
> 
> Grant nodded, gave a sound to agree. That was fine. He'd take Rodney ice cream and they'd watch tv for a while. Do something brainless, and if Rodney's feelings were really hurt, well. They had bad bootleg copies of _Doctor Who_ and _Batman_ lingering in a closet someplace. Those might help. 
> 
> Bad bootlegs were for special occasions, and worth it. Rodney was sprawled on half of the sofa, 'his' half, and he had the peas off of his eye by the time Grant went into the kitchen, and Jelly was sitting on the coffee table. 
> 
> "Ice cream," he offered, holding out the bowl of vanilla scoops and letting Rodney take it. It would make him better, or at least send him into a sleepy ice cream coma. Something like that. 
> 
> "Mmm." Rodney took the bowl and slouched down, hunching deeper into the big blue robe. "I don't know what I'd do without you. You make everything easier." 
> 
> That made Grant feel nice, feel helpful, anyway. "I, I, that's my job. Making things better. You and, and me. Because that's what we do, for one another. Make things better. Always." He settled into the couch beside Rodney, pulled his feet up onto the cushions. 
> 
> "Yeah." Rodney shoveled a good bite of vanilla into his mouth, and was probably letting it melt before he talked again. The TV was playing, and Grant's favorite character was the dog. "I, I want to report him to his command, but I can't." 
> 
> Couldn't, for so many reasons. Couldn't because it would affect them, no matter that they were civilians, and that was even more of a pain. "I, I wish you'd tell me. Who it was. Because, we, I can still blow up his car. For you." 
> 
> Rodney looked thoughtful, and he suspected that he might actually get an answer. "Don't... blow it up. But yeah, something. I want to hurt him somehow. Guy's name was Larkin." 
> 
> "We'll, I won't blow it up, but we'll come up with something." Any imaginable thing. Sugar in the tank, a handful of bb pellets in the hubcaps. A slight rearrangement of the exhaust system. 
> 
> If by slight, he meant carbon-monoxide induced coma. 
> 
> "He's not a local," Rodney shrugged. "But he's also TDY on post next week, so..." Ah, so sugar in the tank would be nice and easy. Not very nice unless it was his own vehicle, but Grant would work that out. 
> 
> "We'll, we'll work on it." Something for them to do over the weekend, Grant figured, and nudged against Rodney gently. 
> 
> Rodney shifted, still holding onto his bowl of ice-cream, and got closer, shoulder to shoulder with Grant. "Yeah, we will. He, he mentioned the mileage he was getting, so. It's his car." Grant didn't even want to know how that had come up in a conversation. It was Rodney. Almost anything could have come up in conversation, considering. 
> 
> "I, I'll take care of it," Grant promised him, and reached out to tug him closer, hugging his brother to him. 
> 
> Maybe, probably, they wouldn't do anything at all but sit there and hold on, and that was okay. That was probably better. 
> 
> Rodney looked a little less fucked up, and that was the best Grant could hope for.

* * *

"So." John was kind of nervous, but this wasn't something he did every day. Actually, it was something he hadn't done since Stanford, so yeah. Nervous was reasonable, right? "Wanna go get a cup of coffee, McKay?" 

"Hmn?" Rodney looked a little startled, but it was close to the end of the day, when he started to wrap things up. He was probably putting together a couple of scathing mission evaluations. 

"Coffee? You know, roasted beans? Caffeine?" John prompted, slumping against the doorway and trying to catch Rodney's attention. "Wanna go get some?" 

"Out out, not... to the cafeteria out?" Rodney hit a few more keys, but he at least had Rodney's attention now. 

John strolled forward and gently pushed the laptop screen down a little. "Are you kidding me? That stuff in the cafeteria's probably only good for cleaning battery acid off of cables, McKay. You can drink it, but that's kind of a matter of desperation." 

"Fine, fine." Rodney closed the screen, and stood up. "The day's almost over. If you're willing to drop me off at my place, I can just give Grant the heads up." His brother had warranted his own set of keys since Rodney had started to go out on gate missions. 

It seemed like a pretty good sign as to how things might be going, John figured. 

"Sure." Hopefully McKay would take the time to change into something that would show him off a little more before they left, John hoped. He'd spent months appreciating the way Rodney's ass wiggled whenever he crawled under something. If he'd actually wear pants that fit, John thought he might just die from the joy of it. 

He was kind of tempted to suggest he take Rodney shopping, but he'd gotten enough 'flame on' jokes from Rodney and the team as a whole since that planet where the chieftan's daughter had decided he needed to be draped in varying shades of blue silk instead of a uniform and a tac vest. Talks had gone well, though, and John had maybe played it up... a lot. 

Rodney gave him an assessing look, and then nodded. "Okay. Then coffee sounds really good." 

Yeah. That was good, and John shot him a grin. "C'mon then. Shut down your stuff and we'll get going." Whatever made him happy, really, so long as there was coffee, and Rodney. And John, but that went without saying. 

He was driving, after all. Rodney made quick work of it -- fired off an email to his brother, turned the laptop off, standing up and grabbing his messenger bag. "Okay, I'm ready, Captain Coffee. What's inspired this?" 

John shrugged, unassuming as he possibly could be. "We've been busy. Plus, since the thing with Donaldson, we've been kind of..." Yeah. Stuck on base, because they were off active duty until they managed to replace him, which sucked. A lot. Champlain had been taking it pretty hard, all things considered. 

"Restless wouldn't be an understatement. On one hand, I've enjoyed having time to sit down and work on research again." Rodney didn't elaborate on the other hand, but John knew that he secretly was more interested in finding things, always in search of the better one. The one that meant they wouldn't get blown up going in as backup to SG-1, wouldn't go missing limbs or anything important like that. Rodney'd been amazing when John had started barking out orders, once he'd gotten past the complete and utter panic. He'd been okay once it was over, too. 

Champlain had been having a lot more trouble with things, which was pretty weird in the opinion of the rest of the base. Of course, the rest of the base didn't know what John knew about Rodney and Grant, either. Things going to shit wasn't the exception, it was the standard, and they were pretty damned brave about it. 

Rodney knew more about coping when things went to shit then he did about how to react when John asked him out for a cup of coffee. "But, are you screening the replacements or are they coming down from on high? I hate that Donaldson's not coming back, but I expect he hates not-walking, so." 

"Yeah. I'll be screening them, but the final say's coming down from on high. We need to try and figure out who'd suit. You know. Considering what we do. Somebody suggested we might take on another scientist." John made a face. At the moment, what he wanted was somebody who'd be able to protect McKay as well as Donaldson had, in the end. 

"Who was that somebody?" Rodney half-demanded while they walked into the hallway. 

John shrugged, moving along beside him. "Who do you think?" Carter, because Carter always had some kind of suggestion. She usually couched it in pretty terms, but sometimes John felt like he was the only man on base who didn't have a crush on her. 

Rodney grimaced. "Yes, well, she would think that. I don't need help. I prefer just having you all. Because yes, I know that another scientist is supposed to serve as sufficient backup should something happen to me, but let's be honest, if something happened to me and you needed a scientist, you're going to be hard pressed to have another me out there in the field." He talked with his hands, vague gestures, pointed motions to John and then his own chest. 

"'s what I figure," John agreed as they headed for the elevators. So much for hoping about the pants. One day, John would get to see Rodney's ass in a really nice pair of something not BDUs. It would happen. He just had to have faith. "So I figured we'd look at them tomorrow, if you don't have anything better to do." He'd get Champlain in on it, but John was a little worried that they'd be replacing both of them. 

And that was okay. They always needed people to guard the inside of the base, and it was hard to guess who was going to work out on an offworld team and who wasn't. "Well, I technically have better things to do, but we're not advancing technology if we're not out there, so if I'm asked to make an accounting of my time tomorrow, no, I don't have anything more pressing than looking over files with you." Rodney shifted a hand, but it was just to stick it into his pocket. 

"Cool." Cool, because it was fun, spending time with Rodney. They kept busy, and okay, Rodney poked fun at him for the time he spent playing way too much Tetris, but John could deal with that. "08:30, then, if we don't end up staying out half the night." He shot a grin at him, pressed the button for the elevator. Nodded at Sergeant Harrison as he walked past. "'cause I'm thinking I'm kind of hungry, actually. Coffee's good, but we could get some steaks while we're out." 

That got Rodney's attention. "Oh, well -- wait, then, I can duck into the locker room and put on real clothes? Because it's embarrassing to be in a restaurant if you Americans get a patriotic streak up your asses again." That had been a desperate stop for pizza three months ago, and some tourist to Colorado Springs thanking them for their service, which, yes, they'd done some wild things, but. Rodney liked to be left the heck alone, never mind being mistaken for military. 

"Yeah, no problem." It was all John could do not to pump his arm with glee. He'd even forgive the whole American thing, considering. "I'll head to the locker room with you. I think I left my wallet anyway." 

After all, the whole American thing was kind of neat to know, because it triggered Rodney off like nothing else, like some absurd love of Canada surged up every time someone cued up that Lee Greenwood song, and John, as an expat, relished in Rodney's ravings when he really got going. "See, how do you drive your car sans wallet?" Rodney asked as they backed away from the elevator. 

"Eh," John offered. "I didn't think about it. Usually, I check when I get out of uniform, but I was thinking about coffee, and maybe dinner. Figured I'd check in with you, so I wandered out without it." Mostly he just wanted to keep Rodney company. 

Maybe, maybe peek a glimpse. It wasn't far to the locker room, and Rodney was already slinging his messenger bag -- which John wasn't allowed to call a purse -- off of his shoulder when he pushed open the door. "And you're our fearless leader. Our fearless, wallet-less leader." 

"That's me. Fearless. Wallet-less. Lots of lesses, you get right down to it." He could be cheerful. How could anybody be anything else when Rodney was going to change clothes, and yeah, maybe they'd fit a little better. Mmm. 

"What else are you less?" Rodney was pulling his t-shirt off haphazardly, while he started on the combination lock on his locker. It made John's tongue stick to the roof of his mouth just a little. 

"I'd say brainless, but you accuse me of that often enough." 

"Pffft, that's an affectation, Sheppard, and we both know it. You're a pilot, and yes, fine, it's helicopters, but if you screw that up people die, so you're not a bumbling imbecile, even if occasionally I accuse you of it when you piss me off." He tossed the t-shirt into what John hoped was a laundry bag -- it was mesh, so he had hope -- and reached into the locker to apply deodorant before he grabbed a Real Shirt. 

Sometimes, McKay's biceps made John's mouth go just as dry as the sight of his ass did. Today was his lucky day, and nobody else was in the locker room to observe John observing. "It's a good thing I don't take it too seriously when you do, then." 

"Wouldn't want to cripple your manly pride," Rodney agreed, quickly, mechanically doing up buttons. He seemed to hesitate for a moment with his BDU pants, but John only saw that peripherally because he was being a good guy and keeping his eyes to Rodney's face. At least until he turned around. "Got any place in mind for dinner other than 'steak'?" 

"I hear O'Malley's is pretty good." John turned in self-defense and started to open his own locker to at least fake pulling out his wallet. "And they've got good beer. Real beer." Not shitty American beer, because he'd heard Rodney bitch about that, and he couldn't really disagree. 

"Oh, real beer. Good, great. We'll do that, then." He could see Rodney bending over, pulling his pants down, and oh, god, that ass. One day, he was going to lose control of himself, and then he would be completely fucked, because Rodney would probably squeal like a girl in horror. 

"Thought you might like that." John closed his own lock and spun the dial, then moved towards Rodney. "Get your pants on, McKay." 

Rodney was hopping into them, just a nice pair of khakis, but it was definitely a change for the better. "I'm getting. Here, grab my bag. I can tie my shoes in the car." 

Reaching out, John snagged Rodney's purse -- yeah, yeah, messenger bag -- and tossed it over a shoulder. "Just make sure you don't catch the laces in the elevator on the way up." 

"That could end badly," Rodney decided, and stooped down for a moment to tuck them into his boots, "But I might go down as 'silliest death/injury in the SGC'." 

"Nah. I'm pretty sure in the end, that'll be General O'Neill. One way or another." John was pretty convinced that with luck like SG-1 had, it'd be choking on Jell-O or something that would get them in the end. 

"One of our oh-so-secure lights in the ceiling will fall and kill him," Rodney decided, fastening his belt when he stood up. Khakis were great for emphasizing a guy's crotch. John had to remind himself that he loved his job, that he was good at his job, that the Americans would probably piss themselves if they found him enjoying Rodney as much as he had been. Never mind that he'd been born and bred American. 

"Jell-O," John offered. "Choking on Jell-O in the cafeteria." 

"No, but everyone in the cafeteria knows the Heimlich. So, what would happen in that case is that he'd choke on Jell-O -- the green kind, apropros -- and someone would go to perform the Heimlich. But they'd position it wrong, break a rib, puncture a lung, and then he'd die of some strange complication." Rodney reached to take his messenger bag back, and now he just looked jaunty instead of militant. 

"Only you, McKay." Only Rodney could come up with that terrifyingly probable result from John's suggestion of choking to death on Jell-O. "Race you to the elevators. Last one there buys." 

And Rodney actually took it at face value, trying to bolt out of the locker-room past John, and if that wasn't a sign that McKay was in a good mood, nothing was. John followed him, loping past a couple of airmen and a marine, and at one point, he was pretty sure they nearly bowled over Dr. Jackson, but so long as it wasn't Teal'c, John was fairly certain they'd survive. 

He mumbled a, "Sorry, chasing McKay," and kept going, but Rodney did get to the elevator first, pushing the open door button in repeated jabs. 

"I'm thinking about a big steak." 

"You're always thinking about a big steak," John told him, and bumped his shoulder against Rodney's while they waited. 

Rodney snorted. "What can I say? I love charred meat. And free bread. Whoever decided that steaks needed to come with free bread was a genius." The elevator doors came open, and Rodney stepped in first. 

"And salad." It was about the only time John really had any urge for lettuce. For the most part, he thought it was bland and kind of disgusting, but somehow it went hand in hand with seared steak. "And baked potatoes." 

The elevator doors closed and they started heading up to the ground floor. 

"Seeing as we're heading out for steak now, we could probably do coffee after . Sort of sober up, decide which of us is driving if at all." Rodney waved a hand slightly. 

"Or whether we've gotta call Grant and ask him to come and pick us up," John replied, leaning against the back wall of the elevator. "'cause lemme tell you, I hate climbing into a cab drunk, McKay." 

"I've never done it without wondering if I'm going to get mugged," Rodney agreed. "Why do you hate climbing into a cab drunk?" 

John cleared his throat. "There was a thing. With a cabbie, a goat, and this really bizarre sort of hummus. I don't wanna talk about it." 

"A goat," Rodney repeated, and he knew he'd caught Rodney's attention with that one. "See, you don't get to casually mention a cabbie and a goat and hummus unless you proceed the comment with, 'So I was in the Maritimes, and'..." 

"So," John mimicked him. "I was in the Maritimes and..." 

"There was this really hot chick who thought she was a mermaid, and she went home with my brother." Rodney deadpanned it, and John was left wondering if it was true or not. "So, the goat. Go on." 

"You expect me to go on when you just started a story about a hot chick who thought she was a mermaid? Seriously, no story with a goat and a cabbie and a hummus can possibly beat that, McKay." John grinned, because of course there wasn't a story about a goat and a cabbie, but teasing Rodney was ninety percent of the fun. 

He'd probably get a real story in exchange for a fake one, and that was worth it while they walked through the hallway. "Okay, well. We went back up home to visit with my sister last Christmas. You remember, we went on leave after the base had gone down on lockdown twice? We got a hotel room, met her boyfriend, went to a local college bar, and lo -- there was a girl from the Maritimes who swore she was a mermaid. She had green strips of cloth woven into her dreads." 

"And she thought Grant was hotter than you?" Which, okay, maybe. Whoever it was would have to prefer puppy cute to amazingly hot, but somebody out there had to feel that way. Just because John didn't wasn't any reason for it to be unlikely. "Huh." 

"Right, and I'm not much into women to begin with -- women are pretty good at picking up on revulsion, much better than us guys are. Mostly, I was wondering what was nesting in her hair. But she and Grant took over the hotel room for the night, and I had to sleep on Jeannie's couch, much to her boyfriend's dismay because they were trying to hide that they've just started living together. But the girl, she seriously thought she was a mermaid. Slept in the tub with water in it and everything." 

That was encouraging. Well, okay, not necessarily the mermaid thing, but the rest of it. Rodney's preferences and such, which John had known, kind of. More or less. He just hadn't push at Rodney, because there were rules and regulations, and they were team. 

"Grant probably took it in stride, though. Your brother's like that," John offered, and yeah. He was, pretty much. 

"He loved it. Still writes to her." Rodney lifted his eyebrows at John. "I used to get knotted up over the kinds of people he falls in with, but they're all harmless. Bizarre, but harmless. And it's not like we're exactly normal." And then he gestured at John, including him in that particular statement. 

"Hey, speak for yourself!" He couldn't help grinning though. "I'm as normal as any other Canadian immigrant who loves flying and goes offworld regularly with a bunch of other crazy Canadians. Well, okay. And Marines." And there was a joke there that wouldn't be funny to either of them or Champlain for maybe the rest of their lives, but it was pretty common knowledge that going out with SG-1 was like a death knell for any Marine who crossed the gate with them. 

And it had been true this last time, too. Maybe being Canadian had been what spared him and Rodney. Or just really good luck. 

"Pffft. The key word there is 'offworld'." 

"...eh." John shrugged, and the elevator doors dinged, sliding open. "C'mon, McKay. Charred meat's on the menu." 

From Rodney's cocky grin, maybe charred meat wasn't the only thing that might be on the menu. 

* * *

The first thing John Sheppard planned to do was propose to Rodney McKay for his ass. Just as soon as he was sober enough to form a statement or question that didn't amount to _I'd like to wake up every morning to lick this curve. No, yeah, this one. Right here._

That one right under his tongue, the dip at the small of his back, and then the swell of his asscheeks, and god that felt good. Warm skin, and he tasted like he'd showered that morning, just clean and heat, and maybe a tiny bit of sweat, but not much. Rodney was spreading his legs, lifting his ass up, arms hugging tight at the pillows. "Jesus, fuck, you're a tease." 

Yeah. Oh, yeah, he was a tease, but Rodney's ass. He'd been wanting to get it, see it, touch it bare beneath his fingertips for months, forever, and the feel, right there, that was as good as orgasm. Maybe better in some ways, because fucking Christ it was at least as good as he'd fantasized it would be, and when he trailed his tongue just there, just along the top of his ass crease, Rodney whimpered. 

He exhaled, a faint pant of air, and hitched his ass up closer to John's mouth, and that wasn't really possible because John moved back, grinning to himself. "Please. Please, John. If you're going to play with it, play with it." Even fuzzy at the edges, Rodney was demanding. 

Best. Drunk. Ever. 

This would be worth the hangover, worth the screaming agony of his brains on fire in the morning, and John slid his thumbs into Rodney's crack and parted him, tongue slicking its way down further, and further, and Rodney was wiggling. Jesus fuck. 

"Oh yeah. Oh, oh yes..." Rodney was on his knees, moving against John's tongue, and he was so glad that Rodney wasn't freaking out. He was so glad that Rodney was all for the absolutely delicious porn John was going to perpetrate on his body, and he almost laughed. Almost, but then he slid his tongue past musk and the tight wrinkled space of Rodney's hole and all he could actually do was moan. 

Moan and move his tongue in, trying to spear Rodney, except his mouth felt not quite the best coordinated ever, and Rodney was into it anyway, moaning and sighing and settling into the perfect angle, the backs of his thighs shivering, ass clenching every once in a while. John's hands were full with his cheeks, and he couldn't seem to stop himself from rubbing his nose along the spaces his tongue had already traced, shifted further down and licked along the back side of Rodney's balls. 

"Ohhh, please, please fuck me, just fuck me, I want to feel your dick, and if you don't I'll..." It was a moot threat, because he had to know that John was going to, but there was the whole finding lube. Condom was probably good, too. Maybe. No, probably. Even when his head felt light and fuzzy, and he was way too drunk to want to face the morning. 

"'ll fuck you," he promised, and balls. Balls in his mouth, lathing the tough skin, hair crinkling under his tongue, and he stroked a thumb over Rodney's hole, pushing in, just a little in, and fuck that was fantastic. 

He wondered if he could shave Rodney's balls sometime, just to feel tough skin without hair, no barrier at all. He sucked on one, tasting while Rodney groaned curse words, vicious bitten off things half-buried in John's pillow that made John pretty sure he'd be coming in his pants the next time Rodney got frustrated and pissed off and started cursing under his breath at whatever piece of alien technology was making him angry this week. 

Letting go, John pulled back, trying to catch his breath, catch his drunken thoughts, make himself slow down and think. 

It was dark, and the room smelled a little off, not quite home, but that usually just meant something was off in the kitchen. He needed to get his lube and more. 

"Oh, you're not allowed to stop. That's unfair." 

"That's 'cause I hafta find some..." Stuff. Some stuff. "Something so we can keep going. I gotta..." John tilted over, scrabbling for the night stand, and yeah. That wasn't in the right place. Sometimes he thought stuff moved when he was drinking. 

He was usually right, but it made his furniture kind of menacing. Rodney leaned, shifting out of his perfect position, and pulled open the night stand drawer. "There, it's here." 

"Cool." Really cool, and it had a flip top and everything, so he got his fingers slick and flopped down on his side next to Rodney, the dark room spinning a little. "'mere, McKay. Because I'm gonna... I really love your ass. Have I mentioned that I? Yeah." 

"That's good. That's, you should love my ass. It's a great ass." Rodney flopped out on his stomach, apparently comfortably and probably pliant if John wanted to move him. "You have a great tongue." 

"'s just 'cause you've got..." Yeah. A great fantastic amazing ass. "Can I play with it s'more?" 

"Ohh, I love that. Be my guest." He shifted, bumped his hip against John and tried to turn towards him. It kind of failed, because hello, drunk, but it was good enough. John could reach down, slide his slick fingers between Rodney's cheeks and smear them up, down, closer, until he found that little hole again. 

He was sort of surprised that it was that tight, but mostly that was because he had wild fantasies where Rodney (mostly, Rodney's ass) was out getting gang banged every time they had a couple of days off. The reality was better, clean and tight, and he slid a finger in nice and deep to hear Rodney's groan. 

"Oh, god, that's... You've... this is even better than I thought it would be," John confessed, because it seemed like the thing to do. "Even tighter and... oh, yeah, Rodney, that's..." He slid a second finger close then, pushed, got it in, slow and steady. "Yeah. That's... that's perfect. That's... yeah." 

"Ohh, fuck." That was the slow, slurred kind of response he wanted, dragged out and just as slow as the second finger pushing in. Then Rodney clenched around him, and oh that was going to feel awesome on his dick. That was going to be the best fuck ever, and he was pretty sure he was blathering that out, telling Rodney how good it was going to be. How much he wanted it, how much he needed it, and he slid a third finger in, pushed it tight. 

"Oh, yeah, yeah..." Rodney was mumbling, but he wasn't sure what it was, something flattering about John's dick and it didn't matter because he was hitching his hips back to John's fingers. Pushing back, managing to scrabble himself onto his elbows and mostly onto his knees, and yeah. Oh, yeah, that was the hottest thing John could ever remember seeing, plying Rodney with his fingers, curling them, stroking into him and making him moan. 

"I want... Rodney, I wanna, I need to, fuck you. Need to... Can I...?" 

"Yeah. Please, please. I want you. I want." Mumbling into the pillow, and then Rodney pressed his cheek against it and moaned again. "Now..." 

Now, and John managed to pull out his fingers. He fumbled his way up, nearly falling over on top of Rodney for a minute. "Now," he agreed, and managed to squirm himself between Rodney's heavy thighs. 

"Mmm, now, now..." Rodney shifted, spreading his legs, reaching back to grab at John's ass. If there had ever been a sign, John figured that was it. He wasn't sure how he managed it, but somehow he managed to get his dick to slip between Rodney's cheeks, pushing, slipping, sliding. He'd almost be happy just to do that, slip back and forth until he came. Rodney didn't seem like that would be enough for him, and so John shifted again, pressed to push inside. 

Pressed and felt that he was at the right place, because suddenly he was being enveloped in tight ass, and Rodney was groaning and humping back against him. "Jesus fuck," he moaned, shuddering and pushing, pushing. "You're, oh, fuck, so tight. So fucking tight, Rodney, I'm gonna, it's... oh fuck." Not last long at all, but it was better than the not-coming thing a buddy of his in training had had. Guy couldn't even jack himself off if he was drunk, he was that screwed up, and this was not screwed up at all, it was amazing because Rodney was squirming under him and hot and tight. "I'm, I, I wanna, I, Rodney, Jesus, fuck. Fuck, if you keep..." Bucking like that, pushing back at John, his ass bucking into John's hips. He reached down, and his fingers were probably bruising against McKay's hips, but fuck. Fuck, he couldn't care. 

He didn't care because it felt good and he wanted some kind of rhythm, wanted to make it last or to make Rodney come, or both. Both would be best, and he had no idea how long he'd manage. He was just hoping, and mumbling something to Rodney, reaching a hand around to try and get Rodney's cock, stroke him off. Get him to come before or after or roughly around when John did, and it didn't take much more, wouldn't, than just getting his hand around it, feeling up and mauling over Rodney's dick. 

The feel of it was hot and smooth in his hand, and his thumb stroked over the head, and yeah, yeah, oh, yeah, he was rutting into Rodney, and Rodney was shuddering, shaking, clamping down around him, and John's hand was wet. Was wet, and he was coming, too, because Jesus, Jesus, holy fuck, it was a miracle he hadn't come before Rodney was done. 

It was a miracle that Rodney had gotten off on that, but John knew he was pretty good with his dick, if he did say so himself, even if Rodney was pinning his hand to the bed with his weight, or maybe that was both of their weights, but it all felt good and he could stay there for a while. At least until his arm fell asleep under both their weights, so he drunkenly nuzzled his face against Rodney's shoulder and hummed with the pleasure of it, fingers stroking in tiny motions, dragging out whatever pleasure was left. 

"Been waitin' for this," he slurred, and yeah. He totally had. "Wantin' it." 

"Mmhm, worth it. Sore in the morning." Rodney stretched, from ass to toe, and John sighed against nice warm skin. It was so much better than masturbating alone, even if Rodney's wiggling was sending him over, making him unsteady enough to tumble to the mattress beside him. Sore in the morning, yeah. That thought was unbelievably hot, Rodney's ass twinging every time he went to sat down because John's dick had been in there. 

"'s a beautiful thought." Completely excellent thought. So amazingly hot, and John thought maybe he had to pee. Maybe. Mostly, he thought his eyes wouldn't come open again, because he was.... 

* * *

Something was chirping in his ear. It wasn't bird-noise, though he was familiar with that and the woodpecker who thought that the siding just outside of his bedroom was a snack. It was chirping, almost purring, and then feet on his head. 

"G'way, Jelly." 

It was always Jelly. Peanut Butter preferred walking on his bladder as opposed to his nose. Telling her to go away just got him a jump over his head, the kind that always made him think she'd be landing on his hangover throbbing eyes any minute now. 

"Good, yes, you're, oh, hello. Good morning." Grant sounded way too fucking happy considering the state Rodney was in at the moment. 

"Time'd I get in?" He twisted, sore and his head was killing him and oh. Oh, god, someone was in bed with him and there were hairy legs, so at least he'd brought home the right gender, and there was black hair and oh. Jelly was prancing merrily on the other man's back, plucking at the sheet that covered his back. "Jesus. Shepp'rd." 

"He, he was already up. Not feeling well, but, but he's still kind of drunk. He seemed pretty, well, yes. Very pleased. I, I, I told you so." Grant seemed to be amazingly happy with himself. He would. Dammit. 

Grant was always happy with himself, and Rodney shifted, struggling to sit up without dislodging John -- who'd probably washed his face, maybe showered, possibly eaten, and then crawled back into gross sheets and passed out again so he could get mauled by Jelly. "Shush. I knew having Irish coffee with him was bad. Mixing booze is... ugh, I need a shower." 

"You, you smell like something that died." The blatant honesty his brother gave was, on occasion, something Rodney hated. A lot. The part where he wanted to puke wasn't helped by that statement. "I, I, there's coffee on. I made coffee, and, if you're up, I'll, you probably want some dry toast. So I'll, I'll go do that. 

"Thank you." Shower it was, though, so Rodney got unsteadily to his feet and started towards the bathroom, determined for a good quick hot water wash. Maybe it would help with the marching band that had taken up residence in his left temple, just behind his eye. It was amazing what a little hot water could do. 

"Yeah. Yeah, and, and I'll poke John. See if he wants something. Some eggs or, well. Yeah." 

"Or to get out of the bed before it molds onto him," Rodney agreed blearily, pushing open the door to the master bedroom. At least they were at his home, and not John's home. 

Though he was pretty sure that was there they'd been planning to go. Pretty sure, except instead they'd ended up in Rodney's bed, which was undoubtedly for the best, at least for his back. 

Rodney really hoped they hadn't tumbled on top of Grant and that Grant had gotten up and wandered off before things had gotten hot and dirty. Oh, God, he hoped they'd gotten hot and dirty, because he couldn't remember it, but there was cum matted on his belly, and his ass was twinging, sore, and yeah. Yeah, it must have been. 

That was a good indicator of hot and dirty, generally. He wasn't sure where conversation was going to go about what'd happened, but it was going to wait. Rodney didn't waste time getting into the shower, and it was mostly warm, left-over kind of warm. Maybe he should have looked at Sheppard a little closer, because Grant didn't usually take all of the hot water. The suspicion that it wasn't him made Rodney want to go back and look, see if it was John. 

It would've been his luck to bring home an imposter, but Grant would've pointed it out to him if he had. And been smug about that, too. Rodney reached for the shampoo/bodywash, slathered himself in it so he'd smell nice and minty fresh instead of semen and sweat and beer and Bailey's. 

Getting clean didn't take so long, especially since lukewarm water didn't give Rodney any inclination to stay under the water for a while. He stepped out, toweled off, and reached for his razor and shaving cream. 

And then it sort of hit him that he'd finally gone and done something that was unthinkable for him -- he'd slept with a coworker. He'd slept with John, not just sleeping sleeping, which they'd done on offworld missions, but sleeping. Sleeping, and fuck. Oh, god. What if it messed everything up, what if it made everything so completely impossible, so bad that they never managed to make things right again? Rodney loved his job, loved going offworld, and John could be pissed. John could decide that they wouldn't be going anywhere together again. 

That would be a new fresh hell because Rodney liked his team, and he and John were looking not really forwards to, but looking in the general direction of getting the replacement they'd need to keep going and... 

He got out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist and rubbing a hand towel over his hair. "You! You did this as a setup to keep us from going on missions!" 

That was a blatantly innocent look, and it was a complete and total lie. Rodney believed it the way he believed that the 'gate was the coolest thing he had ever seen or heard of. "M-m-me?" Grant blinked. "I, it wasn't my idea!" 

"No, not -- Jesus, Sheppard, wake up, I'm accusing him, not you, though I wouldn't put it past you to put this sort of thing in motion for other reasons, but that's beside the point." Just to the left of it. 

Grant shot him a look, all stern blue eyes and doubt. "Rodney. Rodney, you're wrong about, well, this. This whole thing. Sheppard wouldn't, didn't, plan to... not for other reasons. You don't, we see different things, when we see people. We see... You don't see what's, what's there. What people want or, or believe or need." 

Shit. And that was usually what he was kicking himself over. Not that it mattered because John was either unconscious or feigning it. Rodney leaned over and poked his shoulder hard. "Hey. There's toast. John? You didn't poison him, did you?" 

"I, I thought it might help." Oh, yes. Fantastic. Sarcasm, and it was much too early and he needed coffee. He needed coffee and some kind of pain killer. Not necessarily in that order. 

"You've been around me too long," he sighed, shaking John's shoulder now. "C'mon. I know you're awake." 

The grunt that answered him was remarkably familiar. "Yeah. But I'm trying to die here, McKay, and if you shake me again, I'll puke in your bed." 

"Huh. I thought you could hold your liquor better than that," Rodney mused, patting his shoulder. "Do you want toast? Or Grant and I can leave, and let the cats eat you. Whatever." 

That did sound remarkably like a man contemplating puking. "I'd say the cats, but one of 'em jumped on me earlier and I'm getting a pretty healthy respect for how heavy they are. Toast's good. If I can drag myself up. You got something for a hangover?" 

"More booze is probably a bad idea. Water and Tylenol." Rodney glanced over to Grant. "You have any ideas?" 

Grant shrugged. "He already showered. I, I figure breakfast and, yeah. That's a start." 

"You drink like a fish, McKay," John moaned into his pillow. "Like a FISH." 

"Hey, I have a headache," Rodney promised. "It's like a drum corp behind my left eye, but headaches are something I can suppress for world ending doom, so I'll kill a few Motrin and move on. C'mon, get up. Liquid helps." 

Sheppard was sluggish, but he was moving, and he was naked. A little on the thin side, but Rodney couldn't help watching, even knowing everything was fucked up, that it was going to be the end of everything, because no way could this work. No way. 

"Lead the way." John was squinting, as if even the light filtering into the bedroom hurt. It probably did. 

Rodney took ten steps, to the bathroom and back, and gave John a towel for modesty and cat protection. "Also, I don't drink like a fish. I drink like most any doctoral student. My liver trained on marathons after grading season." 

"And, and he dated soft sciences." Thanks, Grant. "They, they think it's fun to get drunk and talk about whether Shakespeare would, if he would think the newest film of a play would make him happy or not. There's yelling," he added helpfully. "And, and Rodney's good at that part." 

"When I'm drunk, because Shakespeare, I'll have you know, would mostly be all about whoring himself out for a better standard of living, seeing as it was what he did all of his recorded life. Next you'll be telling him about Charles, Grant, and I'll never hear the end of it." He glanced at John, at John trying to stand up taller. 

"Has anybody seen my pants?" He was going to run, and then Rodney'd be off the team and everything would be so fucked up. "I'm pretty sure I don't wanna face sitting down with cats in the room. You know. Considering." 

Grant perked up. "I, we have, let me get some sweat pants." 

"Hey, towels work great for cat defense," Rodney suggested, because it was what he was wearing. Of course, Rodney was accustomed to dealing with cats on a pretty regular basis, and Sheppard had always struck him as more of a dog kind of guy. 

"If you're snapping it at them, sure." 

He laughed, and gave up on the towel he'd grabbed for John. "Fine. Fine! Peanut Butter, here kitty kitty kitty." He smacked his hip once, and there was the cat, prancing into his room in a rush of motion from Grant's room. He dropped the towel on him, and the reaction was immediate. Dancing, pouncing, towel-laden joy was what that was, and every now and then, the cat would pause, almost make his way out from beneath the towel, and then turn around again to frantically leap and jump and chirrup. 

"Well. That'll show me, then," Sheppard drawled, but he wasn't watching the cat. He was eyeing Rodney, up and down, and they both might be hungover, but Rodney knew lust when he saw it. 

"So." He lifted his eyebrows at John, and then asked, "Just how did we end up here last night?" 

The shrug of those shoulders seemed lazy, slow, just like John. "First there were beers. Then there were shots, which, you know, seems pretty stupid, all things considered. And somewhere along the way there was coffee, but not enough." 

"And we ended up here. And Grant's just beside himself in glee." Grant even waved a hand at them when he came back and pressed a pair of sweatpants at John. 

"Well, well, technically, I'm beside myself a lot. Or, or close. Something like. So!" He clapped his hands together. "Breakfast. I'll, I'll scramble eggs. And make toast. And, uh." Grant waved, and scurried off. Damn him. 

Peanut Butter was still hosting a one cat scuffle at their feet, while John unsteadily tried to pull pants on. "Thanks. So, uh..." 

So, he didn't know what to say, but John was fumbling up his pants, and Rodney could look, at least. Could see what John had to offer, and then he was moving, and Rodney thought for a minute that he might hit him in the face. His hands were raising, anyway, and then John was kissing him, and okay. That hadn't been what he'd expected. Not at all. 

"Oh, thank god. Thank you, I thought you were going to deck me..." And it wasn't that it was saying something bad about John, but maybe his own expectations, except, no, John was kissing him and it was good. It was good for sober, and that was important, amazing, perfect, well, not perfect, but at least they weren't drunk. They weren't drunk, and they were kissing, John's thumbs stroking over the protrusion of his jaw. 

"Finally," John murmured, "finally." As if he'd been waiting for it. 

Maybe he had, and Rodney relaxed into it, and that was when Peanut Butter bumped into their legs. "Mmm, finally what?" 

"Finally. Do you have any idea how long I've been watching you wag your ass at me, bent over under hundreds of... of DHDs, of whatever device of the week has your interest, of watching you get excited over new discoveries, of..." 

"Are you kidding?" Rodney laughed, pulling back a little. "I don't... wag my ass. Period." 

"Trust me, McKay." Oh, he hated hearing that. Hated it, hated when John gave him the smirk that went with it. "You wag your ass." 

"Yes, well, it's probably some..." He waved a hand slightly, hoping he could get away with that. "I'm going to come back with pants on. But this is, this is okay, right? Because if you're okay, I'm okay." 

Rodney knew the curve of John's mouth, the one that said everything was all right, the one that meant it. "Yeah. We're okay." 

He relaxed, and finally wandered to get some pants. That was good, that they were okay. They might have trouble, and if it was going to become some kind of ongoing thing they still needed to keep themselves professional, but. For now, they were good. They were okay, and they would be okay, Rodney was sure of it. Absolutely certain. 

And hangover or no hangover, they'd have coffee and breakfast soon, and maybe it'd be just like always, the two of them, comfortable and content. Well. The three of them, because there was Grant. There was always Grant. 

He hadn't thought about that, about the repercussions of that. If John would even notice, if he had to explain. Any of it. All of it, and he knew Grant wouldn't say anything. They didn't talk about it, after all, just the way they didn't talk about Mother's letters by the door. 

"You okay, Rodney?" 

"Yeah, I'm okay." Pulling a t-shirt on, too, because it sort of struck him that half naked breakfast never was a good idea because hot coffee and chest hair had a magnetic attraction. "I just, uh. I know I'm fine at work, at least, I like to think I'm fine at work, but Grant and I are kind of a little fucked up and if you're expecting just work-me, I, uh, can't promise just work-me." 

There was something about the way John looked at him that made him pause, take a deep breath, gave him a sudden fear that it wouldn't work out, that John would be... not just shocked but completely appalled and horrified. "Rodney." John's voice was deep, steady. "I kind of expected you guys to be a little fucked up. You know. Considering. And that's okay with me." 

"Good. I mean, not that you expected it, but that it's okay with you." He leaned in, kissed John again. "So, you want to go feed your hangover?" 

And John, wrapping his arm around Rodney for just a minute, pulled him close to agree. "Sounds like a plan."


	4. Chapter 4

> Mother was making Kraft Dinner for supper. 
> 
> Well. Mother was actually making it for Jeannie, who got to eat in the dining room most nights. She was tiny and young and cute, so Mother seemed to actually like her. 
> 
> She didn't like Meredith. Not really, and he saw the way Ernest looked at him sometimes, as if he couldn't make sense of it and didn't know where to start. 
> 
> He wanted to shout it at him. That she more than hated him, and that he might maybe get Kraft Dinner, but more likely he'd be scrounging things out of the fridge and slipping down, downstairs. It never made sense to him, though, that Jeannie was worth loving and he wasn't, that Marion wasn't. 
> 
> They'd never done anything to Mother. They'd never done anything except try to make her happy, even when they were small, even when all Meredith could remember was Marion crying on his shoulder when they first moved in downstairs. 
> 
> They'd tried everything, and then, somewhere in there, he'd stopped trying. Just him, just Meredith, so Ernest didn't know why he was quiet and sullen and miserable, because trying to please her never worked. Not the way Jeannie could, with a smile or a weed picked out of the grass. She seemed happier when she came into his room at night, but even that was short lived, her hand guiding his fingers to places he didn't quiet want to know. 
> 
> Places that scared him, if Meredith admitted the truth of things. Places that made him cry when she went away, even though he was a boy, even though he was eleven and living upstairs while Marion was in the hell that was downstairs. 
> 
> After she left him, too-awake and stressed, sick-feeling, he sometimes wished he could trade with Marion, except then Marion would have been up there, having that done to him, and he didn't want that, either. 
> 
> He wanted Ernest to stop looking at him like he was a space alien. He wanted Ernest to come and see what happened so that maybe, maybe, it would stop. He wanted to be less afraid, less completely terrified that if Ernest did find out, he'd just be sent back downstairs with Marion again, and that Mother would send nothing but citrus fruit downstairs for food. 
> 
> As it was, he was plotting to get food downstairs, to get Kraft Dinner for himself and Marion, and maybe that would make the day okay. He just... had to weasel through dinner pretending he cared about any of them, any of them at all. He didn't, and he didn't have to, not ever, he'd decided. He just had to care about Marion, and taking care of both of them as best he could. 
> 
> "Meredith! Dinner is ready! And you'd best be heading down this minute, with bells on!" 
> 
> "Coming!" He tucked his math book under his arm, and skidded down the stairs, still hugging onto his book. "Kraft dinner?" 
> 
> "And, and PEAS!" Jeannie yelled, running up to him. "Mer, Mer, Mer! I gots a thing! See!?" She held up a red jingly apple and shook it happily. 
> 
> "Yeah?" He reached for it, just to make it jingle, and wished he could snatch it from her and give it to Marion. "Where'd you get it? That's pretty neat." 
> 
> "M, M, Mommy brought it home for me!" She stuttered a little. They said she'd get over it, the stuttering. They'd get her speech therapy, special classes. She'd get those things, and not Marion, who stumbled over words and letters and who would never get those things, not if Mother had anything to say about it. 
> 
> "Mmm." He handed it back to her, smiling at her because she was happy, and stepped into the dining room to find Ernest reading the newspaper. 
> 
> It wasn't going to be a good dinner. He could already tell, the tension rising, Ernest's paper up like a shield. Meredith's fingers clenched tightly on his book in response to what he knew, knew, would be an utter disaster. He just didn't know why it was going to be an utter disaster. Just... just that it was. "How was... work?" His questions were always stilted, but. He didn't care much, so why not? 
> 
> Ernest let the paper drop and gave him a smile, funny and a little stiff. He didn't know what to do with Meredith, and it showed. He tried, but Meredith always knew he never really could figure things out. "Long. Thank you for asking, Mer. How was school?" 
> 
> "Okay." He'd aced a test and then he'd sat with the teacher and watched her grade, because he didn't want to go outside to get beat up under the guise of 'recess'. He'd had worse days. Like the day before. 
> 
> "And how was your math test?" At least he asked. Mother never did, and Meredith stiffened because he heard her coming. 
> 
> "I got a 100." He sat down, watching Jeannie wave her red apple happily. Better to be quiet, now, as quiet as possible, anyway. 
> 
> "M-M-Mommy!" Jeannie jingled her way into her chair. "Peas p-please!" 
> 
> "Here, sweetheart." The paper was put down, and maybe dinner wouldn't be so bad as all that after all. "Let me get you settled." 
> 
> It was all about picking the best time to sneak off and feed Marion. He watched the normal goings on, and then shifted and offered, "Can I help with anything?" 
> 
> He thought Mother was going to say something to him, something sharp and hateful, but she tilted her head, and nodded. "Go fetch the glasses, Meredith." 
> 
> It was almost a relief, and he did, leaving his book on his chair seat, moving carefully, two glasses at a time so he didn't break any, because he wasn't allowed to break them. If he broke them, Mother would be angry, and then he wouldn't see Marion for days, for weeks. When he finally did, Marion would be shaking and hungry and scared, because Mother did even worse things to Marion than she did to Meredith when he made her angry, and he couldn't bear it. 
> 
> So he was careful, and cautiously sat back down, waiting. For... whatever, good or bad, that was going to come. Everyone seemed okay, despite the inauspicious beginnings of the evening. Jeannie was prattling on about the lady at daycare that she liked best, and Edgar was nodding at her, paying close attention. 
> 
> Meredith could've picked a fork up off of the table and stabbed himself in the chest, and Ernest would've just stared blankly at him. It was a relief when his mother came out with the peas and the Kraft dinner, and just served them. There was some kind of chicken, as well, and Meredith didn't smell any kind of lemon on it. Sometimes, Mother did that, just because she was angry at him, and then he couldn't eat anything at all. 
> 
> "Clean your plate," she ordered, and then sat down herself. 
> 
> Oh. Oh. He'd have to scrap leftovers for Marion, then, only Marion loved macaroni, and he wanted Marion to have the good things Meredith got, only his mother had said to clean his plate. He reached for his fork, trying to stay focused. He could, if there was plenty left over, sneak a little out of the containers. Mother almost never noticed when he did that. Sometimes Jeannie didn't finish hers, and then Mer could scrape it out of the trash and take it down in a napkin. 
> 
> "So, how was your day?" Ernest looked at Mother, and that was one of the looks that caused the kinds of fights that scared Meredith, made Jeannie hide in her room behind her bed. That look said something had happened, and that he knew all of the gory details, but for some reason he felt an urge to poke the sleeping dragon. 
> 
> Meredith wondered if he could plead nausea and run to his room. 
> 
> "You know how my day was," his mother told him, with mock sweetness in her voice. Meredith stuck a forkful of food in his mouth, and swallowed. 
> 
> "I just thought I'd give you the chance to vent, Patricia. You can't internalize that kind of thing every day or you'll have a heart attack or something some day." 
> 
> "I'm not going to have a heart attack, Ernest. I do fine with my stress. I'll be downstairs after dinner and I'll feel better by the time I get back. Work out some stress on simulations." Oh, and she was smiling at Meredith, and he could barely taste the macaroni for the backwash of rising gorge in his throat. 
> 
> He had wanted to see Marion, give him something nice. Give him something to look forward to, and now there was this. 
> 
> Ernest frowned a little. "You're pushing Meredith too hard, Patricia. Sometimes you need to let him just be a little boy, not some math and science genius." 
> 
> "It's okay. I'm naturally good at it." He shoveled another mouthful of macaroni into his mouth, concentrating. 
> 
> "See? He enjoys himself. You shouldn't suggest that I'm pushing him, it'll discourage him." Mother seemed particularly pleased that he'd spoken up, at least. 
> 
> It was going to be horrible. She discouraged him in everything she could, so he focused on eating what he could of his plate and considering how he was going to feed Marion. 
> 
> How they were going to get through the night. 
> 
> If it would matter, feeding Marion. He'd probably sick it all right back up, which was what Mer would end up doing, too. 
> 
> They kept talking around him, and he didn't listen. He ate, and he watched Jeannie and he wondered what the perfect time to ask to be dismissed was, when he could get away to maybe at least warn Marion. 
> 
> At least that. Even if it was the only thing he could do.

* * *

> The phone gently fell into the cradle, the old-fashioned headset still warm in his hand. 
> 
> He couldn't do it. 
> 
> He'd been trying. Ernest Pembroke had been trying, in all honesty, to make that phone call. He'd dialed all of the numbers, even, round and round and round, and heard the first ring, but then he couldn't seem to do anything except hang up the phone. 
> 
> It was one of those things. He wanted to make the call, wanted to say those words, and he had no idea how to go forward with it. He'd tried over the years. He'd tried again and again, but he never knew where to start. Apologizing for blindness, for misunderstanding Patricia's dislike of Meredith, for not seeing and knowing and doing something about it, all of those things didn't seem like enough. 
> 
> Like they would ever be enough. 
> 
> He leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath, massaging his left arm absentmindedly. He'd done things for the boys, of course, and even after all these years, thinking of them as the boys, as two instead of just Meredith, made him nauseated with guilt. It wasn't just heartburn from the late dinner he'd eaten, no. He'd set up trust funds and tried to smooth their way through schools, degrees and graduate degrees, managed to offer scholarships under names other than his own, and even that wasn't enough. Couldn't ever be enough. 
> 
> His wife, his daughter's mother, his supposedly loving wife, had been leading a double life, with a son he hadn't known she'd had there. He'd always thought it was strange, that night when she'd come home with Meredith, talking about his father dropping him off and not the other boy, and he'd wandered outside for a good long look himself, wondering if their father had abandoned them both and one had gotten scared and ran off. Except that man hadn't abandoned his children, no more than Ernest would have abandoned Jeannie. 
> 
> That man had been buried in his cellar, in a section so neatly walled off Ernest had never thought anything about it, buried beneath the tiny room Marion had lived in for thirteen years. The cell in which the boy had nearly starved to death, actually, and the memory of it never failed to bring a sour vomitous taste to his mouth. All he could see when he thought of it was Meredith, skinny Meredith, wild-eyed and hugging a skeletal creature that looked ridiculously like him, both of them herded up gently by an officer who couldn't possibly have been that much older than either of them. 
> 
> All he could think of was Patricia, going wild, screaming for her boys and swearing that they loved her, wanted to be held captive, wanted all of the terrible things he knew she'd done, thanks to the court case. 
> 
> He'd visited her once in prison, and he still didn't know why he'd gone, except that he needed her to sign the divorce papers, and he'd wanted to hear some kind of regret or remorse in her voice, but there hadn't been. She's said they wanted it, reiterated it all, and he'd seen in Meredith's eyes at the trial that her claims were all a lie. He'd known it just from living there, and he should have... done something. Been less passive, been more observant, pried more, wondered more where her temper went. 
> 
> Wondered why Meredith was always so very unhappy, mouth permanently slanted into crooked misery. 
> 
> With a sigh, Ernest picked up the phone again, and began to dial Jeannie. Even if he couldn't talk to Meredith and Marion, he could at least prove to himself that he'd done well with one child. He could at least make sure Jeannie was all right. 
> 
> He'd been lucky to have kept custody of her, that she had been as bewildered as he'd been, that she hadn't been abused. There had been years of therapy and talking, social workers and surprise home visits. But she was doing well, out there and happy and going to college, just like both of her brothers had. It wasn't a surprise that she'd chosen a scientific field, too. 
> 
> Two rings, and he heard Jeannie's voice. _~"Hello?"~_
> 
> "Hey, pumpkin. Just your old dad calling to check up on you," he said, and his voice wasn't unsteady. Not really. It could be excused, all things considered. 
> 
> He was allowed to feel swept away, buried with guilt from time to time. _~"Hey. How was work today?"~_
> 
> "Mostly the usual, pumpkin." He'd lost his tenure, in the end. Even most scientific ventures hadn't been interested in him, so Ernest had started his own business. All things considered, it hadn't gone too badly. "How's school?" 
> 
> _~"Decent. I've uh. Got Kaleb coming over to dinner tonight, and I'm caught up on my homework. It's pretty good. Kleinsen's class is starting to ramp up, and we're doing group work for our final project."~_
> 
> She sounded good. Sounded happy, and a little nervous, like a girl who was mostly in love and nervous about upcoming school issues should. "It'll all work out, pumpkin. I know how much you hate the group projects. Can't blame you much, either." Jeannie tended to take everything onto herself, which meant she'd end up taking over the majority of the work for fear the others would affect her grade. 
> 
> It was more stress than she needed, but she knew her limits, in a way. She didn't try to take more than sixteen credits at a shot, and she was naturally brilliant. It had once made him wonder if Jeannie had been some pod-child, like Meredith and Marion seemed, but no, that was giving himself too little credit. _~"It's just that no one else does their work, and I'm not sure if I should be the one running them around or not."~_
> 
> "You'll do fine, pumpkin. You always manage, and this time, if you'll take your old dad's suggestion, you should make note of who doesn't pull their part up to snuff and let the professor know." 
> 
> _~"That sounds like something Meredith would do,"~_ Jeannie said, and laughed a little. _~"Well, I'll do that this time, but I hope I can put a little fear in them first and maybe they'll just play along and do the work."~_
> 
> Meredith would do that. Meredith, Ernest had learned, would probably take them all apart with the lash of his tongue, do the work himself, and report them to the professor. "Well, you're just as bright as Mer, sweetheart, and tough as nails when you have to be. You'll be just fine." 
> 
> _~"I know."~_ She sighed, and she probably did know. But it was good to hear it from an outside source as often as possible. _~"I'd just rather do it all on my own, is all. Oh! Are you free at all this weekend?"~_
> 
> "I'm always free for you, pumpkin. Are you coming home? I'll stop by the store and pick up some things to make you dinner." His cooking wasn't anything to write home about, but it had kept them from starving. Jeannie even liked it, most of the time. 
> 
> Jeannie was fairly not-picky. _~"Yeah, I was wondering if I could. And if I could bring Kaleb with me. He wants to meet you."~_ Oh, oh. She'd never been too big on bringing the boyfriends home with her, not even in high school with that one boy, Rick, who'd seemed so nice. He was a heroin addict now, but at the time neither of them would've guessed that. 
> 
> "Sure thing, honey. Is there anything specific I should cook?" He'd like to make a good impression, since Jeannie was making the effort to bring Kaleb home to meet him. 
> 
> _~"Not unless you want to. Though, uh, he's vegetarian, which I'm still getting used to?"~_ He could hear Jeannie's vague doubt through the phone. _~"So, if this is a hassle, and I know you don't need that, we can find a restaurant. I'd really just like for him to meet you and, you could let me know what you think."~_
> 
> God, he loved his daughter. At least one thing he'd done in his life had come out well. Jeannie was the most amazing, wonderful thing he had ever done. "Oh, no. It's fine. I'm sure we can make some kind of arrangement. What time do you think you'll get here? Will both of you be staying?" 
> 
> _~"Probably."~_ She seemed to be contemplating. _~"Yeah, and maybe we could go to a museum while I'm down there."~_ Which was something the two of them would do together, so it was good to hear that she didn't plan to alter herself just because she had a boyfriend along for the ride. _~"We'll probably be there around noon."~_
> 
> "I'll be waiting for you, pumpkin. Fresh sheets and everything." Ernest smiled. Jeannie always did make him feel better. "I'll see you Saturday." 
> 
> He could almost hear her smile over the phone. _~"Great. I'll see you then, Dad."~_
> 
> "See you then. Bye, pumpkin. Be careful. I love you." Because he did. He did love her, and he'd loved Meredith, and he would have loved Marion if he'd ever had the chance. 
> 
> He just hadn't had the chance. _~"I love you, too. Have a good night."~_ He heard a mock air-kiss, and then she quietly hung up. It was so good to know he didn't irrevocably harm her. 
> 
> So good to know that he'd at least done one thing right in his life. 
> 
> Ernest hung up the phone, and leaned back in his chair again, taking a deep breath. He'd call and make an appointment with his doctor tomorrow. Maybe ask about something for depression, since Jeannie was gone, and all he could think about was Meredith and Marion and Patricia, all of the things that had gone wrong. 
> 
> That would help.

* * *

> Swearing that he never ever would had been a horrible lie. But he'd smartened up. No more straight bars, no more mixed bars. Gay gay gay. He was looking for someone to have sex with, a one-night-stand kind of thing, so he needed to go gay. He didn't even have to dress well for that -- jeans and a tight t-shirt was pretty damn effective for getting in, better than a nice shirt and nice pants. He didn't want to look nice. He wanted to look filthy, he wanted to look fuckable. Casual had gotten Grant that far, kept getting him dates and out and oh, god, work wasn't challenging enough and Nevada had too many temptations. Nevada had bars with leather and transvestites and plenty of guys who'd be interested in taking him home. Maybe even more than one of them, and that should be enough to wipe out the thought of his brother dragging some trashy blonde back to fuck in their bed. 
> 
> Their bed. That was proof right there that he, they, but maybe mostly him, was kind of fucked up in the head. 
> 
> So, he'd settled on a place that declared itself the Leatherette -- sort of a mouthful, but it mostly looked like Leather Bar lite -- and pulled into the parking lot, hoping he'd tried hard enough to look as good as possible. Hot and trashy, and fuckable, hopefully, but good. Good enough for what he wanted to happen to actually, well, happen. The cover charge wasn't unbearable, and he got plenty of attention the minute he walked in. 
> 
> Fuck Grant, and fuck Grant's blonde bimbos. 
> 
> It wouldn't have bothered him if just one was the kind of settle down forever kind of girl. That was fine, that was great. Rodney wanted Grant to have happy foreverness if it was even possible. But these were more sleep with, take his money and run people, and Rodney could have great sex for free. 
> 
> He was sure of it, he decided, smiling at the men who caught his eye on the way to the bar. He was on his third drink before anybody came up to him, though. 
> 
> "Nice ass." The sound of it was deep Southern fried crack, and there was a big hand palming his left cheek. Rodney would have turned around and raised hell if he wasn't planning on getting laid. 
> 
> "Thanks. I'm pretty fond of it." As it was, he was trolling, trying to bait, and twisted a little while he grinned at the guy. The hand slid into his back pocket and an arm slid around his waist. 
> 
> "Name's Caleb. You look like you're interested in a little action." 
> 
> Well. That was the brilliant deduction of the century. 
> 
> "I'm interested in a lot of action. I'm Rodney." Hand in his back pocket was sort of new, one less layer between skin and hand, and also, not a wallet pocket. He'd already figured out that bar hopping meant minimal money, a driver's license, and his keys.. Risk and paranoia necessarily had to go hand in hand. 
> 
> He pressed his ass back a little, into Caleb's hand, and he wasn't surprised when a rasp of chin scraped across the back of his neck and down his throat. "Got a friend might be interested in coming, too. You still up for it, Rodney?" 
> 
> Oh. Oh. Well. 
> 
> He'd done one-night stands, but he'd never done a two at once night stand, and that might be something to put down in the history books, given that he was feeling mellow and even-keeled. "Can I get a look at your friend, first?" He got himself another glimpse of Caleb -- brown hair, nearly trimmed, chiseled chin, slightly crooked nose. Nice. 
> 
> "You seem like the kind of guy who wouldn't care, so long as my friend's dick's eight inches long and thick as your beer bottle." Caleb grinned then, and that was nice, too. "But if you gotta see 'im... Hey! Andy!" 
> 
> That seemed to catch the attention of a guy at one of the tables, and oh. Oh. Wow. Redhead. Rodney could deal with a redhead. 
> 
> "Ohhh." He exhaled, and then looked at Caleb again. Yeah, it was going to be filthy but he was going to be there all right. "Yeah, your friend can definitely join you." 
> 
> "We got a motel room six or seven blocks over. You interested in leaving yet? Or you want another couple of drinks, Rodney?" The hand in his pocket was slipping up, pushing at his waistband. 
> 
> Three, Rodney decided, was pretty good for him. "I don't need to be blitzed to enjoy this." He still took a nursing sip off of his third one, intent on finishing it off because the hand pushing at his waistband turned into fingers sliding down his ass, and going commando had been the right call. 
> 
> Caleb offered his friend Andy a wave, and he was coming forwards, all long bowlegged walk, and then Rodney was between two reasonably good looking men who had their hands all over him. Thank God he'd chosen this bar. 
> 
> "Yeah. I like your pretty new friend." Andy had the same syrup-thick accent as Caleb, and when he leaned down and caught Rodney's mouth, he sure as hell didn't plan to protest. 
> 
> Caleb's hand was pressed against bare skin, and Andy was kissing him, and yeah. They could use him however the hell they wanted as long as condoms were involved because Jesus, he wanted that completely closed in and overwhelmed feeling to go on. 
> 
> "Hey, not out in the open, you assholes! Get a fuckin' room!" 
> 
> And yeah. Yeah, getting a room was good, getting a room was fucking fantastic, because Rodney needed every thought fucked out of him. He needed it like he needed to breathe, like he needed to forget, and he was whining, and they were shifting him between them like that's all he was, something to move, a conduit of some kind, conducting electricity between them. 
> 
> That was fan-fucking-tastic for Rodney, and he moved with them, an arm around the redhead because he'd finished his beer. "Let's go." 
> 
> Go, and yeah, that was them, heading for the door, and within half an hour, Rodney figured he'd have exactly what he wanted. 
> 
> * * *
> 
> Three beers was just right, Rodney decided, once they got to the hotel room, and Caleb started to strip him off. It wasn't hard, seeing as he only had a t-shirt, jeans, and shoes. Not even socks, because Vegas was hot. "Oh, Jesus, you're -- you guys have condoms?" 
> 
> "Baby." He didn't know which one said it. Hell. They both sounded like something addictive, even though Rodney had never really thought much about accents. He was horny as hell, and it was definitely having an effect. "Baby, we got condoms, we got lube, we got whatever you need, so long as you just lay back and take what we give you." 
> 
> "'m gonna put my dick so far up your ass, you're gonna taste it when I cum," came a murmur against his ear, and oh. Oh, thank god. 
> 
> "Yes..." Yeah, he wanted that, he wanted a dick in his ass and condoms and god, yeah. Rodney pushed back, stepping out of his jeans, ass up against someone's hard dick. The redhead was in front of him, so it had to be Caleb. Had to be him rubbing his cock against Rodney, pushing at him, shoving him forward against Andy who had his thumbs up under Rodney's t-shirt, rubbing his nipples. 
> 
> He loved having his nipples rubbed. It was just a nice sensation, and it was making his balls twinge when he leaned into it. "Fuck. Fuck, please, I want it all." Wanted everything. Wanted the feel of them, against him, in him, and his shirt was coming up over his head, falling to the floor, and there were lips replacing thumbs now. 
> 
> "Oh, yeah... Oh, yeah, hell." Rodney swallowed, let his head tip back and his hands wander, pulling at the red head's shirt while Caleb rocked slowly against his bare ass, sliding his dick up between Rodney's asscheeks. 
> 
> "You like this." He didn't care which one said it, because it was true. "You'd like it if there were more of us, all here to fuck your sweet hot ass. It's a beautiful ass, Rodney." 
> 
> Rodney groaned, and just pushed back, feeling that slide. "Yeah. Yeah, I, I'd probably like that. I want..." One of them, both of them, either of them. He didn't care, as long as he got to feel it. He'd probably like it if they all just lined up, bent him over the bed and fucked him, one by one, until he couldn't do anything more than shudder there and take it. 
> 
> "Got some friends...." Oh. Oh. 
> 
> He had friends, and lips kissing at his chest, and Rodney shifted. "Yeah. You could... yeah." Yeah, he was interested, because that was kind of once in a lifetime, and he could work out later where it fell on his decision making scale, towards good or bad. All of that could come when he was less fucked up and more something else. 
> 
> "Gimme a minute." A minute, and the one rubbing his dick up Rodney's crack pulled away and went to the phone while the redhead just kept plucking at his nipples and rutting against him, slow and hot. 
> 
> They were actually doing it. They were calling other people, and Rodney let his hands wander down to the guy in front of him, just sort of seeing where he was, tracking his movements, trying to focus on the hand that was, oh, hand that was wrapping slowly around his dick, and he was already ready and eager, wanting it, wanting all of it, wanting anything he could get. 
> 
> "You like it like that? You wanna... yeah, you wanna." What he wanted, fuck only knew. What he wanted was to forget, to just stop thinking, to be fucked until he couldn't think. "C'mon. C'mon, Rodney, let's get your ass ready. Get you wet and slick and ready for cock." 
> 
> Three beers was just right. He moved, let the other man guide him towards the bed like his dick was a leash, and maybe it was. Led by his dick, occasionally, everyone was at least once in a while. But this wasn't bad or weird, it was sort of mellow. "Yeah. I want your fingers, I want your dick, I want to feel everything." 
> 
> Everything, every last moment, the feel of his ass clutching, squeezing around dick after dick, and there were pillows piled up. Pillows, and he was being urged over them, knees sprawled open, dick pressed against the material. 
> 
> Oh, yeah. Yeah, that was nice, because he was sort of cushioned, sort of floating and spread and he liked that feeling just as much as he liked the drizzle of cool liquid against his ass. Lube, and it felt like the nice stuff, like the stuff you got from a good sex shop and not the olive oil aisle. He wondered if they'd been planning something like this. 
> 
> "Yeah. Oh, yeah. You've got a nice ass. Like... yeah." Yeah, and there were fingers stroking between his cheeks, against his asshole, and the guy just kept talking, saying things about his butt like Rodney didn't know anything about his own ass. 
> 
> Rodney knew a lot about his own ass, so he tuned out the words, focused on the feeling of one finger slowly sliding into his asshole, and let his breath hitch inwards. It was better, better to concentrate on that, on all of the nothing of it, on the feel, just the feel. By the time the second slid in, all he could do was whimper and rock, and wait to see what happened. 
> 
> "Chris and the guys are coming. Get him good and open." 
> 
> "Ohh, yeah." Chris and the guys. Rodney closed his eyes, rocking back to that second finger, sliding his dick against pillows. "I want everyone." All of them, fucking him until he was so sore he couldn't walk tomorrow. Until he couldn't walk next week, had to take a vacation just because his ass was fucked flat. 
> 
> "Damn, you're a slut." A slut, and there was a third finger. Third finger, fuck, fuck, fuck yes. Oh fuck yes. 
> 
> "Hey, once in a lifetime kind of chance here. Come to Vegas, see the lights, get your ass pounded," Rodney murmured into the pillows, twisting, trying to lift his ass and twist and anything to get more of that stretched out feeling, and then the man accidentally brushed his prostate. His back shifted, cracked when he shoved his ass back in reaction, unable to hold back a whine of near desperation. Christ, that was good, and once Andy had it, he didn't want to lose it, either. There was a steady, regular touch now, and Rodney was almost sobbing with the intensity of it. 
> 
> Just, over and over against his prostate, mauling it until his dick was throbbing hard against the pillows, leaking with it. "Fuck, fuck your dick had better do that, too." 
> 
> "Oh, baby. My dick will do all kinds of good things to you, and when Chris gets here? You'll love what you see." He couldn't imagine, could hardly do more than give deep, raw sounds of hunger. Fuck. Fuck. Oh, he wanted... fuck. 
> 
> That was just what he wanted, and the guy was pulling his hand back, leaving Rodney aching and stretched-feeling, but he didn't stop touching Rodney. He just pulled at his asshole, sliding more lube in. Any second, he almost expected them to take a tube of it and just squeeze it in, filling him completely, but there was instead a crinkle of sound, condom wrapper coming undone, and yes. Yes, fuck, the door was opening, and he wanted to turn his head, see how many of them there were, but he couldn't seem to bring himself to move. 
> 
> He was sort of sinking into the pure feeling of it, and he didn't want to see how many guys there were, because he might start counting and that'd just go to hell if anyone took another go at him, and wow, he hadn't thought about that. "Yeah. Go on, do it." 
> 
> Do it, and he thought maybe it was Caleb, because Andy was the one with the slick fingers, but there was someone positioning themselves behind him, conversation off to the left, and then, then there was dick, fat cock pushing into him slow and steady until he could feel hips against his ass. 
> 
> It was beautiful, and missed, just as a sensation. Stretching him, better than fingers, full and wide all around, and the guy held still for a moment while Rodney squirmed, pinned nicely in place. He could feel the hands on his hips, feel fingers kneading, stretching, and he loved it. Loved it. 
> 
> "Tight. Oh, fuck yeah. That's... you're gonna love this." And he wasn't talking to Rodney, but it didn't matter, because he already did. Already did, and then there was the sound of another condom, and that was, he wondered what they'd do, wondered if he'd end up sucking cock, dicks in each hand, and he hoped. 
> 
> Hoped to just lose himself in it, and when his therapist back when he was young had warned him away from promiscuity, he'd thought she was insane, because it was feeling real damn good. The guy behind him clutched at his ass with strong fingers, holding him still and tight so he could control the movement, and then there was someone in front of him, someone touching his face, and pushing him to open his mouth. He did, and then he was full, tasting, sucking, and latex tasted like shit, but it was something he wanted, wanted so badly, needed, and fuck. Fuck, yeah, there was a beat, a steady thrumming pounding thrust starting, and he was.... 
> 
> Coming, coming and then pushed past it, fucked through it, left quivering and throbbing and there was stick a dick in his ass when it tapered off, and he was still squeezing around the guy, still coming down from it when the guy pulled out and new hands spread his asscheeks. He could still see stars behind his eyes, and yelled around the cock in his mouth when the new one split into his ass, because that was all he could do; yell and shudder, squeeze around new dick. 
> 
> New dick when he'd just adjusted to the old dick, but that was a fantastic feeling, new dick sliding into his ass while he sucked as fiercely as he could. He could yell and moan and groan, and if he lost his attention for sucking, it seemed all right. Everything was hazy, deliciously unclear, and if someone came, then they switched out, whether it was his ass or his mouth. Either one, and Rodney was humming with the pure pleasure of it, with the push and the tug, and there was more lube every now and then. Lube, and fingers checking him, and he had no idea how many of them there were. 
> 
> He didn't care, because he felt caught up in it, and he'd come at least twice and it was an aching sort of pleasure now, his dick sensitive, his prostate twinging, his ass throbbing. He should have thought about a cockring. Maybe if he ever did it again. 
> 
> God, he'd be crazy not to do it again, as often as possible, because he was loving this. Loving it, and the steady pounding of his ass was letting up. He could hear them talking, the number of them dwindling, and when someone pulled out of his mouth, it seemed the guy fucking his ass was the last one to finish. 
> 
> It left him to sprawl, trying to catch his breath, which he was pretty sure had run away on its own, and he could relax, focus on the feeling of the last guy pulling out. Oh, that was just a deep, sated feeling, something he wished would last and last. He was so exhausted he knew he wouldn't be able to get home, and even a firm slap on the ass didn't rouse him much. 
> 
> "Yeah, he's out," he heard over his shoulder, and he was. He really was. 
> 
> "Eh. Just leave 'im there. We can come back later." And the door shut, and Rodney didn't make any effort to do anything more complicated than passing out. He shifted, maybe, but, he was out. 
> 
> * * *
> 
> It was sort of relaxing, he figured, even if he was less comfortable the next time he came to. There was someone pounding on the door, and he didn't really want to get up. 
> 
> "MEREDITH! MEREDITH, I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE!" 
> 
> Holy shit. 
> 
> That was Grant -- how did Grant get there, find him there, he was supposed to be busy. Rodney started to his feet, and pulled the door open before he remembered that he was naked. Naked, and covered in lube, and Grant looked frazzled, like he hadn't slept, like he was scared to death somehow. 
> 
> "Meredith. Oh. God. Meredith." 
> 
> "What? What're you doing he--" And he had an armful of Grant, and it was probably a better idea to close the door and step inside, only in the other order. It wasn't even his hotel room, and he had no way of knowing when the guys it belonged to would be back, but Grant was shaking almost to pieces, clinging to him and babbling in his ear, something about the car and looking for him and knowing which bars he preferred when he was cruising and how it was dangerous not to let someone know where he was going. 
> 
> Which, okay, maybe it was, but why now, why... why then, didn't make sense. Rodney petted at Grant's hair, and swallowed. "Grant, Grant, it's okay, I'm just... sore and need to shower, but I can go, okay? It's not a problem." 
> 
> It wasn't. It really wasn't, but Grant had him, was calling him Meredith, was clutching at him unbelievably tightly and saying something about days, about him being gone for days, and he hadn't been. He... Rodney was sure he hadn't been. 
> 
> "An-an-and I, I, I, they, the, the, I was looking, M-M-Meredith! And, and, and they, they wouldn't, it couldn't, be reported. Be, be, because, but I TOLD them I was, was, I was you. I was you, and, and, and and I called in sick, for me, for me and for you, and...." 
> 
> "Days?" He ran a hand through his hair, still half-holding onto Grant. "No, I wasn't gone for days, I couldn't, it was just overnight, just..." 
> 
> Just not long at all. Rodney would remember if it had been that long, he would have some idea of... But he couldn't seem to think. There'd been something between changing clothes and getting fucked, or maybe he'd just thought there had been. It couldn't have been days, though, because.... 
> 
> "I, I, I got home. And, and you were gone. And the, the, our, the cats were, they were... hungry and, and Mrs. Malokavich s-said, said you, that she heard, that you left. On Friday. An-and it's, it's Wednesday." 
> 
> "It's Wednesday," Rodney repeated, tilting his head and frowning at Grant, and oh, shit. That was a lot of time to lose. "I, I don't remember, I just went out, just for a night, this isn't even my hotel room, I haven't been here the whole time..." 
> 
> "You have, there's another one. On, in, it's got, you used a card." Used a card and apparently Grant was a little calmer for clinging to Rodney. "You, you stink. Mer. I, let's, you need a bath. And, and to go, we'll go home." 
> 
> "I used a card where?" He'd planned on driving down and driving back, and now he wasn't sure what had happened. "Can we go home and then I'll get a bath?" 
> 
> "At, at Caesars Palace. You were, I thought maybe, I, I, oh." Oh, and if he had the car, then how had Grant even gotten into Vegas in the first place? "You, you should, I, I, there's a shower. You should, because, I, I told them, I said I was locked out, and, and I have, I have your things." 
> 
> "Caesars Palace? We should... probably go there? I..." Didn't remember a damn thing, and that shook him. "I need to get dressed." And shower. He needed to do both at once because he wanted to leave that room. He could remember, knew what he'd done, but he had no idea how many men there had been, or even if they all used condoms, and he was so very fucked. 
> 
> "Let, I can, do you need...?" Grant didn't want to let him go. 
> 
> "No, I... I'm okay. Just hold on. We'll go back there, get out of here, and just, we'll go." He moved to get his clothes, moved to get towards the bathroom just for a minute, for a quick washcloth bath. To take a shit, because he was slick and sticky and he really... really needed to spend some time with the toilet. 
> 
> "Okay." Okay, and Grant seemed desperately, nauseatingly happy to hear that. 
> 
> He could spend Thursday and Friday at work, and then take the weekend to piece together the last week. Him and Grant, and he owed his brother. He just wasn't sure what.

* * *

John couldn't break the bars. 

They were wooden, but they were green, and he'd had better luck with iron ones the last time they'd been incarcerated. 

The iron ones had been weak, and when he'd kicked at them hard enough, they'd bent, busted, but these wooden poles were getting him nowhere, and he knew they had to get out. It was kind of a feeling, the fact that they were in tiny swinging wooden cells. It felt bird-cage like, which was making John twitch, in more ways than one. 

"Goddammit!" He shoved at the door one more time, and hissed as part of the vine cut into his hand. "Fuck!" 

Fuck, because they'd taken Rodney out of the cage behind him almost fifteen minutes ago, and John had to get out of the damn cage. 

He had to get out, get the other two guys free, and then get McKay free, and he'd have been lying to himself if he thought that it was going to be easy, that Rodney would be a-okay. Fifteen minutes was a long time. So he just needed to focus, and press his back against the side of the cage, focusing before he kicked at the door again. 

If Rodney was less than okay when he found him.... 

John had been on peace-keeping missions, that much was true. That didn't mean he didn't know how to kill when he needed to, and he was going to leave a path of bodies a mile wide if Rodney was so much as scratched. 

Champlain was working on his cage door two over, and the new guy, an explosives expert named Cadman, was doing something bizarre with the crazy bun she had braided at the back of her head. 

She caught his eye, and produced a utility knife, and John decided he needed to buy her dinner when they got back earthside. "If I can get out, Shep, I'll cut your ropes and lower you down." 

That was a start, anyway, because their weapons had been stored in a hut within their line of sight. If they could get that far, get their hands on their P90s and C4, John could work out a plan from there. Even if it just involved shooting every fucking native of this planet that got between him and McKay, because that was when he heard Rodney. 

He heard Rodney screaming, yelling, cussing mingled into those screams and it made him kick at the bars harder. Maybe he wouldn't need Cadman's utility knife. They needed to get out -- for McKay, for themselves, for every planet that didn't think the Goa'uld were the best thing since sliced bread, and he wasn't sure whether he hoped that it was a Goa'uld torturing Rodney, or just some fucked up natives who were angry that they came through the Chappa'ai. One involved a hand of god, the other involved... he wasn't sure what. It didn't matter what, because when he got out of the fucking cage... 

The wood cracked, and the jar of his knee was going to be a bitch later, but two more kicks and the door flew open, the vines acting as hinges pulling loose. It would probably get attention in short order, and Cadman was looking at him like he was crazy when he looked up from the ground. Champlain was getting her attention, though, and they were working on getting out, so John stalked his way over to the hut with their weapons. 

Idiots, he could hear Rodney saying in his head, leaving their weapons right there as a temptation, except that if he was there he would've been cursing at John for yet another act of body-breaking stupidity, when they both well knew that come their day off Rodney would be checking John over bodily and pampering him with bad movies. 

By the time he got his hands on one of the nine mils, the door busted open behind him. He turned, immediately saw it wasn't Champlain or Cadman, and pulled the trigger, leaving a hole perfectly between the native's newly blank eyes. There was no one else behind him, so John turned back, snatched up one of his knives and the semi-automatic, and headed out to find McKay. 

Champlain and Cadman were catching up, coming into the room while he walked away, and they just moved to get their weapons, and that was good. Someone was going to be looking out for his six. 

It was the finding that was hard, because the clearing was wide and the other buildings were on the far side of the clearing so it sounded like Rodney's screams were coming from all of them, and they were loud, piercing shrieks that set John's teeth on edge and made his finger tighten on the trigger. 

He shoved in the first door, and there was nothing there. No one, so he turned away and moved to the next one, wondering where the fuck they all were. 

He moved fast, fast as he could, and when he got to the last fucking hut, it figured that most of the village had gathered to watch. They were watching Rodney spread-eagled on a frame while some idiot wielded a knife at him, and he didn't have time to catalogue Rodney's injuries. He just had time to pull the trigger, watch that motherfucker's head splatter all over the people crowding close to the front. They cringed back, and there were others coming forward, insanely, madly, and John was shooting, spray of bullets hitting bodies in a wave. 

After that, most of them fled, and he could lower his weapon, reaching for his field knife to cut Rodney down, because he was working in Getting Back Home mode, knowing that they were going to be an unscheduled activation and that they could move faster if someone could help him carry McKay, naked and bloody between them. Rodney was breathing hard, and he didn't stay standing once the ropes at his arms were cut. 

"You, you..." 

Yeah. Him. "I'm here for you." Here to save him, and fuck. Fuck, fuck, there was blood everywhere, Rodney's fingers, Christ.... 

John was moving to try to get Rodney up from the ground, trying not to move slower because he was looking. Rodney's fingers were blood-wet, and there were cuts, score-marks across his chest, hips, and there was a bleed at his thigh that looked bad. "'s, shot me? John?" 

Oh FUCK. 

"Sir!" That was Cadman, coming up behind him, helping him with Rodney, and Champlain was somewhere there, shooting, John could hear them, and he was shaking as he started fumbling for a pack. Cadman seemed to have what she needed, though, was ripping out a pressure bandage and getting it on Rodney. 

"It's okay, sir. Let's just get him out of here. Gate's not half a mile out. I have his left side, you have his right? You have your GDO, sir?" She was moving like clockwork, and John had to say that for a new person, she was doing great. They'd made a good choice, and Rodney was up, sagging between them, but they had him, and Champlain was holding back the rest of the villagers with steady sprays of bullets. 

"Got 'im," John grunted, and they were moving, both under his arms and heading for the 'gate as fast as they could with Rodney supported between them. 

He couldn't, wouldn't think -- about Champlain's quick reloads, which meant they'd be coming in hot, or about the fact that Rodney said he'd maybe shot him? And Rodney was usually right, somewhere in a sentence -- about anything at all because he needed to concentrate on staying balanced and moving with Cadman and reaching for his IDC when they got closer to the gate. It wasn't guarded. They obviously hadn't expected any of them to get loose, because they would have stowed their weapons a hell of a lot better if they had, would have had someone waiting there at the 'gate to keep them from leaving. 

"Cadman! I've got McKay. You get ahead and dial the 'gate." John could get him up in a fireman's carry at least long enough to get that much further. 

It might hurt him, but he'd rather have Rodney wounded and alive than not alive. Cadman hesitated for not even half a second, before she turned and bolted forwards, towards the gate, leaving John to heft Rodney up onto his shoulder. 

"Oh fuckin' Jesus." Rodney was mumbling curses, and John grunted his agreement, because fuck. Fuck, he was trying to get Rodney to the gate and Champlain was catching up, but the 'gate was roaring to life, and he hoped Cadman could send her IDC up ahead. 

"We got incomin'!" Champlain yelled behind him, and great. Great, because those fuckers had serious bows and arrows. It was the whole reason they'd ended up in cells, and John couldn't wait and lay cover himself, he needed to keep going. Rodney was hurt, and they all needed to get through the gate, NOW. 

Rodney was getting heavier by the step, and he was talking, but John couldn't make out what he was saying. Cadman had turned, gun in hand, and she was laying down fire, so he tried to hurry, and then, yeah, they were past the DHD and heading through the 'gate, and he could stumble down the ramp and onto the 'gate room floor, dropping heavily to his knees, and fuck. Fuck that hurt, more than he thought it should. "Need a medic!" John yelled, like that wasn't obvious. 

It was disconcerting to have the Marines still aiming guns at them, but then he heard Cadman and Champlain stumbled through the gate, and the connection closed off. Safe. Safe and home, and he could spill Rodney out into the arms of medics who got there just fast enough for him to tilt to the side afterwards. His knee was radiating a pain that John was pretty sure could be called agony, and he gritted his teeth and rolled to clutch at it. 

"Sir." Cadman panted, leaning over, hands on her knees, and looked at him. "Next time? Wait the thirty seconds for the knife, would you?" 

Sounded like good advice. 

"Yeah," John croaked. "No problem. I'll keep that in mind." 

"Want us to drag you to the infirmary?" Champlain offered, even while he gestured for someone else to help him. Champlain was still trying to catch his breath, but he wasn't sheet white and desperate, at least. After Donaldson, John had figured he'd reach a point where he'd stop wanting to go through the 'gate. 

"Nah. I think they'll get me there. Catch your breath and see what you can get out of them about McKay." 

Champlain seemed happy to rest, forehead down, on the ramp for a moment, while Cadman was getting her bearings. "I think we're all going to end up there." 

From the stretcher they were loading him into, John looked over to make sure that he hadn't managed to shoot Cadman and Champlain, too, since he'd hit Rodney, and Christ. He'd hit Rodney. They didn't look like they'd been shot, though Champlain had a knot the size of an egg rising at his hairline. 

At least neither of them were visibly bleeding. 

"See you down there." John relaxed, dropped his head back against the pillow of the gurney, and decided he could go along for the ride. 

* * *

He hadn't heard from Meredith in twenty-four hours. Twenty. Four. Hours, and that was much longer than it should have been. Much longer, because Grant knew, he knew that they were going offworld, knew they were going, but he should have... Meredith should have been home. A day. A whole entire day. 

He hadn't heard from John, either. 

Two and two equaled bad, and no one was talking to him. They should've been, they should've talked about it to him, and he hated it when Rodney went missing, and he couldn't go in and pretend to be Rodney there. 

He couldn't not do anything, either. 

Grant had been thinking about this. It had been on his mind since he'd discussed the entire offworld issue with Meredith to begin with, and he'd come to several conclusions. 

The first had been that getting past the guards would be moderately impossible. That had been right out to begin with, so he'd gone on to other notions, including computer sabotage. 

In the end, he'd gone with the simple choice, however. There were a ridiculous number of air vents in the Cheyenne Mountain Complex, and while Meredith was extraordinarily claustrophobic, tight spaces had never bothered Grant in the least. 

Grant sort of loved them, and his therapist said that it was at least 'seizing control', so he was okay with coming in off-shift, cracking open a grate on the correct side of the mountain, and shimmying down. There were even tiny ladders built in, so they had to know that sometime, someone would use them. They probably assumed that they would be used for maintenance at some point, and not a man determined to find out what had happened to his brother. 

There were a ridiculous number of ladders involved, so many different levels. He was fairly certain he'd spent the last couple of hours going down, down, down, but he wasn't worried about the time it took. He had a map that he'd managed to gently extricate from the computer systems, and a firm grasp of what they meant. He figured it would take another hour and a half before he reached the lowest point in the complex and reached an area where he could conceivably fake being Rodney, or locate the infirmary. 

He figured that would be the best place to start. 

A or B, fake Rodney or get into the infirmary, or possibly both. But he had the map firmly in his head, and he concentrated on the downs and acrosses and the downs, and the little bit of back up and then back down. It was like snakes and ladders, and sometimes he had a bad roll and went up after having gotten so far down. 

Finally, though, finally, he was there, and he could see all kinds of people walking back and forth through the vent grille, and he just needed to find somewhere quiet to climb out and go hunt down Meredith. He'd probably end up out of a job and locked up somewhere very far from his life, but he had to know. 

He had to. 

He couldn't let things go like that, couldn't let Meredith be somewhere without him. Meredith hadn't forgotten him, and he couldn't let it go. They should have told him, but they didn't, hadn't, were too busy to do something like tell him when it was there in the papers that he was supposed to be notified, just due courtesy. 

When he finally reached the floor he knew he wanted to be on, he waited, waiting to open the grille and get out. Finally, after nearly half an hour, the room he was watching cleared out, and Grant carefully removed the grille and decided on the best way to get down. It took a little effort -- especially when he had to stand on the table to put the grille back on -- but then he was good, ready to go walking through the halls with people thinking he was Rodney, or locking him up. One way or the other. 

He'd at least done his part and tried, and if everything was okay, then Rodney would get him out of trouble. And if Rodney wasn't okay, then it didn't matter. 

He at least got into the hallway, and spotted someone with a coat, long white coat, and sort of decided to follow them. At least as best as he could without being seen. Everybody seemed to be flooding in one direction, and no one was paying any particular amount of attention to him. His curiosity was nearly overwhelming, wanting to know what they were doing, but he needed to know about Mer more, so he broke away to head towards the infirmary. 

Just like the map had told him, and he drifted in, through double doors, looking for his brother, looking and listening, anything that could tell him anything at all, and then he saw Rodney in a bed. 

The last time he'd seen Rodney with that little color, he'd just had his gall bladder removed and there had been 'complications'... code word for, in Mer's opinion, _medical doctors are all quacks_. Even with the covers pulled up, Grant could tell that there were more areas bandaged than not, and it would be a lie for him to say that he wasn't on the verge of a complete freak out. 

He took a deep breath -- because deep breaths were good and helped him concentrate, even if it was a little like gulping -- and he edged in closer to the bed, moving to take Mer's hand. That was normal, what he would have always done, except there were plastic tubes in the back of his hand, and tape, and the tubes went up to a baggie that was hanging. 

It didn't seem like he could get Mer out up through the ventilation system. He had too many things attached to him, all wires and fluids and little beeping electrodes that made Grant cringe, made him want to run, because electrodes never meant anything good. 

Gently, he curled his fingers into Mer's and reached to touch his face, and he was honestly surprised to see Mer blink at him, a sleepy not really there kind of motion. He even gave a mumble, a whine of sound, and Rodney turned his head a tiny bit. It was almost like he was there, awake, but not really. He was hurt, Grant could tell, and that wasn't good, only he wasn't sure how to fix him. 

"It's okay, Mer." Even though that was probably a lie, it was a lie meant with all of his heart in hope of making things better. "It's okay." Grant stroked his fingers over Rodney's cheek, so gentle, because he looked like even that hurt him. Grant couldn't bear the thought of hurting him. 

He heard the 'tsk' sound behind him, more than he heard the heels on floor behind him. "Can I help you?" 

Grant stiffened, because getting caught... well, it was inevitable. He'd just hoped he'd have more time with Mer. "I, I, I, no one, I, someone was sup-p-posed to call. If, if something happened to Mer. And, and, and I, and I...." 

"How did you get down here?" That was a firm, business voice, and he felt it dance up his spine while she walked around him. 

They said that confession was good for the soul. He'd always thought that was a load of manure, because Mother had never confessed, and she seemed to be getting along just fine, if her letters were any indication. "I, I, I. I, I." He hated it, when the words wouldn't come out. "I came down, down the, there are air shafts. B-b-because no one would, no one would tell me. Anything. And, and, and Mer never came home, and, and, and John didn't call and, and I, and I...." 

"You..." She looked from him, to Rodney and then back. "You're Grant? Doctor McKay asked about you. I'm afraid I'm going to have to have you moved to a cell. We can't have people sneaking in here." 

Grant gave a heavy sigh, and kept petting Mer for a minute. His eyes were stinging and his nose felt funny, because he didn't want to leave Mer. "Can, can, can I stay? For, for just a minute. I. I was so afraid." Because he had been, terrified, and so he looked at the lady, pleading as best he could, considering she was going to lock him up. 

She folded her arms over her chest, and then craned her head to look out the door. "Oh, Colonel O'Neill! Jack, can you spare a moment?" 

O'Neill. He was the one Rodney always said looked like MacGyver and was smarter than he pretended to be. Plus, he made Rodney want to ban him from the labs for some reason. Grant didn't figure it had to be a very good one. 

"Uh, sure, You know, world ending, blah blah, it's the scientists handling it, I can't do much more than stand there and look authoritat-- Oh, son of a bitch, there's two of them. What, did he split himself off like a clone while you were gone?" 

"No, I'm afraid not. Colonel, this is Dr. McKay." 

Well, obviously he was Dr. McKay. Who else would he be? "I, um, I...." 

"There's two of them." The Colonel took a deep breath. "The one who isn't in the hospital bed doesn't work here, Doctor Fraiser. We only have the one." 

"That's precisely the problem, Colonel. Would you please escort Dr...." 

Alarms started blaring, and the urge to crawl underneath Rodney's bed was overwhelming. Grant figured they'd find him eventually even if he did, so he managed to keep from doing it, just barely. 

_~"Colonel O'Neill, Major Carter, to the gate room!"~_

"If, if, if he's going to the gate room, can I, is, could I stay with Mer?" 

She mouthed 'Mer', and then smiled. "All right. Just stay here. What's your field of specialty, Doctor McKay?" 

"Comp, I, I work with computers. Probabilities, programming, engineering, and, and, also, but my field of specialty is, I'm, astrophysics. Like, like Mer, because, because I was behind. Because of Mother." Which was undoubtedly more than Rodney ever wanted anyone to know, but he was a little stressed, so Mer would just have to forgive him. 

Mer always forgave him. "How much do you know about... where you are right now?" She was asking carefully, and it meant she wanted a careful answer. 

"I. I'm in the infirmary. In Stargate Command, sh-Cheyenne Mountain Complex. L-level twenty-eight. And, um. There are, shouldn't the colonel be going now?" Grant eyeballed him. 

"We're short a geek. I'm gunna guess that your twin's told you more about this place than I want to talk about right now. C'mere, guy. McKay two." O'Neill gestured to him, and turned to leave. 

"But, but I want, what about...?" Mer. Still, Grant figured if he was going to be shoved in a cold grey cell, he should at least go see the Stargate, all things considered. That was the whole reason he was going to end up in a cell. 

"You help Carter fix this, you might just get a get out of jail free card. C'mon, just... pretend you're your brother. This should be fun." 

Help Carter fix what? Carter, Samantha, the major, she was pretty, but kind of boringly sweet. Grant liked blondes, but he liked the kind that were kind of... spicy. Feisty. And.. Yeah. "Does, if I'm pretending to be Rodney, can I be honest about how stupid people are?" He patted Rodney's hand. "I'll, I'll be back if you, if they let me, Mer." 

"Yes, yes. Just fix it, before the gate re-verse opens a wormhole to a planet of tribbles or something. Carter can explain this to you better," he declared, walking them down the lines. Green, red, yellow, and so Grant hummed and followed along the line more than he was following the colonel-MacGyver person. 

"Are you sure you can't fix it with, with bubble gum and a toilet paper roll?" Just to check, because it was kind of creepy. 

"I wish I could. Do you know how much easier all of our lives would be if I could do it with a paperclip, a lighter and a gum wrapper -- and here, Carter! Bounce your techno babble off of McKay!" And just like that, he was half-shoved up the steps of a stairwell, but it was nice and dark in there, at least, even if it ended up with him shoved too close against the major. 

"I thought McKay was in the infirmary?" 

He made a sound of irritation, unable to stop himself. Being Rodney was kind of fun. Grant enjoyed it. "Not Meredith. I'm Marion, thank you, Major." 

"Oh, uh..." She looked confused, and maybe that was good. "Look, the gate is accepting dial-ins. It's... Dialing out with a wormhole that comes in to us. Now this is very interesting and useful, for another time, but right now this is... out of our control." 

"How, how long has it been?" Grant had heard about the mess commonly known as the gate dialing program. Rodney bitched about it on a semi-regular basis, loudly and angrily. "Dialing in when it should be out, I mean?" 

"Over an hour. It's disconnected and randomly reconnected another. We haven't come into contact with anyone new, so I'm not sure how this was introduced into the system..." 

And blah, blah, blah, so Grant listened to it half-heartedly while they kept moving, and then, wow. Gate room, and the gate was on and shining, and the mere notion that a dial-in without a corresponding DHD request was kind of ridiculous. He broke through her babble and said, "I, I, I need to see your code." Because it wasn't really incoming, the gate just thought it was incoming, he was pretty sure. 

It was an error in the code, he was sure. "Oh, uh." She moved out of the rolling chair that she was sitting at. "Here, sit down and I'll bring it up." Except he knew the system and could probably find and bring it up himself faster and that was what Rodney would've done. So, he flailed his hands at her, and she backed up, looking at him as though he was crazy, and he got his fingers on the keyboard and got to it himself. 

Really, they should do something about the security for this thing. If he could figure it out based on what he knew of Rodney's way of doing things, on the things they had worked on together, then anyone with a working knowledge of computers and... Okay, well, perhaps not, but still. There was the principal of the thing. 

In principal, and he'd already snuck into the complex, so there went principal. He started to scroll through the code, and finally he hunched in, got comfortable. It would probably take a while, but all he had to do was think like Rodney. 

That was second-nature, especially the part where he just kept ignoring whatever Carter was babbling about over his shoulder. Blah blah her code blah blah that was necessary for blah blah blah blah. Yes, yes, whatever, and he thought perhaps he'd said it, but then she was reaching over his shoulder, and Grant automatically slapped her hand. 

Oh. God. They were probably going to lock him up just for that. 

But he kept working, reading, making adjustments, cutting a few unnecessary bits, and then he waved her off again at least one or two more times. But he was close, almost fixed, it was definitely the code lying. 

It seemed silly, to have claxons blaring left and right all for a wormhole opening in a weird direction because of bad software. Actually, Grant wasn't convinced that was the problem, but he'd manage to fix that before he went on to consider any further issues. 

He'd stopped the dialing, which stopped the claxons, but it was a fix not a solution. It was like pulling out the extra video card from a desktop, to make it revert back to onboard video for a non-responsive screen. It worked, yes, but it didn't solve. Worse yet, Carter was fluttering around, and she was talking, and Grant wondered if Rodney put up with this. 

Probably not. Mer hated for anyone to steal his limelight. "Excuse me, but could, could, could you please shut up?" 

"Oh, my god, you're always impossible, McKay! Jesus, you solved it, I was congratulating you!" 

The sheer pleasure of knowing he'd managed to pull off Mer's utter aggravating personality was immense. "It, it's not a solution. It's just a work-around, and I think it needs to be... re-worked. Because this is, well. It's shoddy." He tilted his chin up at her. It was hard not to grin. Maybe she had a little more fire than he had thought she did. "Th-thanks." 

She squinted at him, and finally seemed to catch on, which was better than Rodney's people at Area 51 had ever done. "You're... not Rodney." 

"No!" O'Neill put on a shocked expression. "Really? I never would have noticed." 

Grant held out his hand. "I'm the other Doctor McKay. Grant. We met at the grocery store. You were..." He waved a hand. "Uncomfortable." He could always tell. 

"Oh... Oh! His twin brother, how..." She looked to O'Neill. "I thought you were, uh, well, never mind what I thought. Let's, uh, try an outgoing wormhole to a friendly planet as a test." 

"I just said it's shoddy." Obviously there was a need for a stern talking to here. "When I say shoddy, I mean, not fixed. Needs more work. Shouldn't be used any more than necessary. So, so... direct your people to someplace friendly when they dial in. But there has to be more work. Also, I am not in any way deficient. Despite your, your first opinion. Which, you should, it's not nice to make assumptions." 

She started to say something and then stopped, and O'Neill was grinning when Grant looked at him. "See, I found you the second best thing to McKay, seeing as he's still in the infirmary. You two make nice, and fix things. I'll be sleeping in Daniel's office. Call me when you need me." 

"Oh, uh, sure, right. Right. Okay, uh, Grant. Doctor McKay. Let's try to improve this." 

Right. That was good, and maybe, if he was very lucky, they wouldn't lock him up in a cell twenty stories beneath the gate room. Well, or somewhere equally as horrible. "I can even try to be nice. If, if it would make you happy." 

She gave him a weird look, and scooted her chair over beside his. "I can't believe you're down here, and you just... fixed the gate. Okay, yes, shoddy, but you fixed it before we dialed an enemy planet or a black hole and all ended up dead." 

The urge to reiterate the fact that he was not, in fact, mentally handicapped in any way that meant anything was immense. Rodney probably would have blistered her for it. "Hello? Still a Dr. McKay. At least as bright as Rodney, thank you very much, Major." 

"Yeah, but you're a... computer tech up in the administrative section." And she still looked gaping, shocked, and it was no wonder that Rodney snapped at people. "Why aren't you down here?" 

It wasn't any of her business, really, but so long as they weren't locking him up... "SF-86. I, I'm bipolar. And I take medication, and I'm, I'm fine. But, forms." 

"Right. That's... I mean, this place is pretty special, and we could get them to look into it for you. Seeing as you managed to get in here in the first place, it's... You're in or you're out." She cleared her throat. "But uh, why don't we work on getting this straight first?" 

He thought that was a fantastic idea. "Can I, can I see Mer? Afterwards, I mean. Because, see, nobody... nobody called. And, and he was missing. I was worried." 

"Sometimes procedure falls apart when we're busy. I'm sure they'll let you go see Rodney. I assume he's Mer to you?" Yeah, and more. He turned back to the computer, trying to see if she kept any kind of error log running to find the root of the issue. 

It would be a start, anyway. Even if she wasn't as bright as either of them. 

* * *

> Another diagnosis. 
> 
> Grant knew them all by now. 
> 
> Agorophobia with panic (300.21). Anxiety (300.0). Affective personality disorder (301.1). Schizoid personality disorder (301.3). Histrionic personality disorder (301.5). Dependent personality disorder (301.6). Borderline personality disorder (301.83), and really, what was it with the personality disorders? He wasn't. Didn't, at least Grant didn't think, but what he thought and what they thought were very different things. 
> 
> There had been a diagnosis of manic disorder, recurrent episode (296.1), one for schizoaffective disorder, subchronic with acute exacerbation (295.73), and now there was a new one, bipolar affective disorder, mixed (296.6). At least they'd started dragging him out of the three hundreds. Grant was starting to think he was damned to remain in there, diagnosed with one or two or even three of them at a time, once. 
> 
> At least no one had ever accused him of having any particular sexual deviations or disorders. That was something for which he was entirely grateful. That was a level he didn't want to get near, because he knew, he knew that they probably had a number for everything that had happened in his life, but Rodney seemed happy with this one, as happy as he ever was. Rodney always asked why it had changed, why this diagnosis was better than any of the rest of them, when Grant had never acted any different. 
> 
> Grant knew it was just because they had them all wrong, wrong, wrong. Psychiatry really was a pseudoscience at best, but he also knew that the chemistry in his brain wasn't right, that there were repercussions even beyond that, things that had to do with Mother and sixteen years in a room that was barely big enough for a pantry. 
> 
> Rodney had his new prescription in his pocket, and they were going to drop it off at the pharmacy and then get ice cream and then go back to the pharmacy to pick up the new meds for the slow switch-over in drugs. "He says this one should help. And that as a side effect, it should help you sleep." 
> 
> "That, that's good." That would be good, because there were nights when he couldn't. Didn't sleep. Rodney had different nights than he did, nights when he was in a stupor and thought he was brilliant. Grant just had nights when he took every electronic device in their place apart to see how they worked. 
> 
> Most of the time, they worked better when he put them back together. 
> 
> Most of the time. Toasters were the damnedest thing for him to have trouble with, but mostly that was because they were cheap and flimsy and taking them apart wrecked them. Just from the touching. A filament here, a wire there, they were a mess on the inside. A toasty, crusty mess. "Yeah, it does sound good. He said there might be some initial fogginess, but to give it two weeks because you should adjust." 
> 
> Two weeks didn't sound bad. Of course, anything was better than the stuff they had him on now. It didn't work, or maybe it did, but he was always thirsty and a little nauseated, and his hands shook sometimes. He couldn't do things the way he wanted to, and he was just so tired. 
> 
> So tired. 
> 
> "I hope it's, that it's better than now. This stuff. I don't like this stuff." Half the time, he 'forgot' to take it on purpose. 
> 
> That was a slippery slope and Rodney had warned him about it, warned and warned and talked to him about taking his meds, but he was still... working on it. It was a miserable feeling. Anything had to be better. "So, uh. Ice-cream?" 
> 
> "Rocky road?" Grant was hopeful about that. He loved the crunchy bits and the marshmallows. Plus, chocolate. It was impossible to go wrong with chocolate, even if Rodney was limiting the amount of chocolate he got to eat. It helped some, of course, because he wasn't making himself sick with it. Still. 
> 
> Rodney looked sideways at Grant and nodded as he pulled his keys out of his pocket. "Sure. What place do you want to get it at?" On a cone and everything. He wanted a waffle cone. 
> 
> "Can we go to the one with the counters?" They had a good time there last time, and they mixed the ice cream with everything while the customers watched. What was there not to love about that? 
> 
> "Oh, uh..." He could tell Rodney couldn't remember what he meant, but there was a moment of pause and then Rodney nodded. "Yeah. Uh, Coldstone, down by the -- yeah, yeah. We'll go there." 
> 
> That was fantastic. Grant loved their stuff, well. Pretty much all of it, but Rodney liked the coffee ice cream, so they would both be happy. "Good. I, I really like that. Plus... new meds." Going off of one and onto another. It was going to be a bad few weeks. The last time he'd come off of something, the withdrawal had been a bitch. He'd stayed home for a solid week. 
> 
> He might have to do it again, but he hoped not. He hoped he could go into work and just be flighty Grant for a week and call it a day. "Yeah. The good that goes with it, and the bad. Still, I don't think it can be worse than the ones before this last type, so." 
> 
> God, that was the truth. He never wanted to see those pills again. "Think, think I should, should go on vacation? For the... to get changed over?" 
> 
> "Maybe for the first few days, then we can go in to Vegas to cheer you up a little for the weekend?" Rodney offered. "At least to give you a change of venue for wherever you're sleeping." 
> 
> Plus, blonde showgirls. Grant kind of had a thing for them. If anything could make him feel better, it would almost have to be that. "O-okay. That sounds good, I think." The drug was new, amazingly new, but they were going to try it, his doctor said. He hoped that would all work out in the long run. 
> 
> He hoped they didn't suddenly discontinue it on him if it worked. He worried about that, as much time as he spent coming up with ways not to take his current haze-making drug. Rodney grinned, and keyed open the car when he reached it. "Good. Great. I'll call and make reservations in a nice hotel and we'll just run with it." 
> 
> Run with it sounded good. Grant never let Rodney be alone for very long anymore, not since the time he'd found him covered in semen and sweat and lube, more condoms than he could conveniently count tossed on the floor and the bed and every other space imaginable. "Okay." Okay because he would probably need all the help he could get. 
> 
> He hoped he'd feel up to it. 
> 
> * * *
> 
> He couldn't seem to wake up. 
> 
> That was what it was like -- a whole lot of not able to really wake up, at all. Insomnia wasn't going to be any kind of problem, not anymore. 
> 
> He took the pill at 9pm, and by 9:30, he was out for the count. Around then, give or take a multiple of seven. Rodney said it was hysterical, in the funny way, not the oh no way. He'd dragged Grant from the sofa to bed more than a couple of times, and it had just been four days. When he was up, though, when he was up, Rodney gave him the other 'half' of the prescriptions, and he was up, up and away, and it was weird. He needed to start responding to the alarm clock, somehow, though kitties chewing on his feet were pretty good. 
> 
> "Maybe we should get, get one of those alarms that shake the bed. And, and with lights. Or maybe something with really loud..." Grant waved his arms. "Punk rock." After all, there had to be some kind of option, something to do that would help him to wake up without Rodney having to kind of shake him and push him until he was sitting up and he could swallow the capsule to counteract the one he took at night. 
> 
> Two meds, because the not waking up sucked, but he felt steadier already, at least a little. If his hands would just stop shaking, Grant figured he would be okay. He was pretty sure that was from coming off the other meds, though. 
> 
> Two weeks. There was a reason why two weeks was said and meant, and he knew it was more like four for anything real to slide in yet. Maybe even six, except if the doctor said six weeks, Grant knew people would say _Why bother?_ , even though six weeks came very fast. 
> 
> Rodney was sitting at the edge of the bed, watching him and petting Jelly. "Okay. If you want to, we can." 
> 
> "If, if I ever have to get up and you're not here, then I probably won't. Without, you know. Lots of..." Noise. Lots of noise. And maybe not even that. 
> 
> He figured Rodney would be sick to death of whatever option they chose very shortly. 
> 
> "So, we need to go shopping," Rodney offered, as if Rodney didn't personally hate shopping as much as if Grant had just suggested that they saw each other's arms off with toothbrushes. 
> 
> "Kay. Soon as I wake up." After all, Rodney had given him meds, and no matter how sleepy he was, he'd be awake eventually. 
> 
> "What do you want for breakfast?" Rodney had a hand on his arm, so fond, so familiar, but mostly keeping him from lying back down in a kind of mean way. He was such a bastard. 
> 
> "French toast, and, and, and..." No, okay, maybe... "Cheese toasties. And cereal." Because cheese was good. Very good. 
> 
> Rodney laughed a little, and let him go. "Wow, French toast and cheese toasties and cereal. Okay. Whatever doesn't end up eaten is lunch leftovers," Rodney declared as he moved away from the bed. 
> 
> "Good." Good, and Grant dropped back into the pillows with a yawn. Maybe he'd even wake up again, be more awake, and Rodney would be done with breakfast. Mmmmm. 
> 
> Rodney might have to come in and wake him up again, but for the moment he had Jelly standing on his chest, trying to soften up his pectorals. It was relaxing. 
> 
> And then his brother was shaking him, telling him about French toast and bitching about fake maple syrup and Americans. So, pretty much standard, and also amazingly good. 
> 
> "Why would they even fake maple syrup? There's no point. Call it high fructose blah blah." Rodney was hauling him up, shoving Jelly away. "C'mon, breakfast is ready. You'll feel better with food." 
> 
> That was a lie. He'd feel better by about ten a.m. Until then, he'd just kind of manage. "Okay, okay. I'm up. I'm up." It was mostly a lie, but then he was actually managing to get up and stumble towards the bathroom. It was a little better, a little more awake. Mostly. 
> 
> Peeing helped, and he knew that that was because of some kind of anatomical process, muscles moving, releasing pressure. Bright bright yellow, and it made him wonder what exactly was in the stuff that they were giving him, that he was peeing in neon colors. Washing his hands made him feel a little more awake, too, cold water that he could rub with soap and then splash over his face. He brushed his teeth to get the taste of sleep out, and then padded out of the bathroom barefoot and headed for the kitchen. 
> 
> Peanut Butter was sitting on the counter, mewing while Rodney absently fed him pieces of the bread part of cheese toast, eyes on the Saturday newspaper. "Ah, good morning, take three." 
> 
> "It's not, not morning until after coffee." Lots and lots of coffee, with tons of fake creamer, because Grant didn't care so much about how perfect the coffee was so long as it was incredibly sweet. 
> 
> "Cup's right here." Rodney pushed it forwards, around one thick fluffy tail, and grinned at Grant. "So, got any ideas where to get you a couple of super alarms?" 
> 
> "Mmmmfffn." Not when he had a mouthful of delicious amazing coffee. He'd have to think. Call places. Do... something, and that was just good. Really good. He hoped Rodney could read his mind, because until he got to the bottom of his cup, he wasn't talking. His brother should know that. 
> 
> He was just the same. Just because he was up ridiculously early, bright and bushy-tailed, didn't mean Grant had to be. 
> 
> "There's a bed bath and something store up the road. I hate it, but..." But, he might actually make a list of stuff in the house that was busted or that they needed to get new. In addition to an alarm clock. 
> 
> And a pop-up toaster. 
> 
> "Kay." Okay, that sounded good. "Think they'd have, have the kind of loud alarms? That I want to, well. But you're always up early. Sick." It was sick, sick, sick. 
> 
> Rodney scoffed at him and munched into the burnt part of his toast. "It's not sick. I have to for work. That's not my fault." 
> 
> "Ha." Grant eyeballed his toast. It was kind of limp. Of course Rodney would eat the crunchy burnt part, that was so like him. "It's, it's not required. Or, or if it was, then there would be other people awake there in the morning." Most of them were sucking down coffee and stumbling like zombies towards their labs and offices. 
> 
> Rodney was awake and happy to be at work. If they had a late night, and they were there until nine, Rodney was still awake and happy to be at work. Unless he was having a stretch of insomnia. Then, not so much. "We'll get you an alarm clock." 
> 
> "And a caffeine drip." And he grinned across the table, because yeah. He was mostly waking up, and all things considered, he had the best brother in the world.

* * *

He couldn't seem to wake up. 

It was there, at the edge of his mind, and he was sure he'd seen light, but it was in snapshots that hung blurry in his mind. He was trying again, but he couldn't seem to get it together enough to keep his eyes open, to get past the haze and connect. 

Every time he thought he'd made it, that he was going to be able to make sense out of something, out of what was going on around him, he must be getting another dose of whatever they were giving him. It all just... fuzzed out, into senseless randomness. 

Rodney was pretty sure he'd told the nurse that he wanted to go home. He might have told her he wanted a cat or a bowl of blue Jell-O for all he knew. 

He was pretty sure he wanted to go home, even as he laid there in the haze and tried to shake if off again. He wanted to go home and he wanted his cats and he just wanted to veg, instead of lying there pumped full of whatever they thought passed for a good time in the SGC. 

"'s a... 's a where's mah cat?" Except he meant brother. He thought he meant brother. "'s Peanut n Jelly." 

"I'm sure it is, Dr. McKay. We're going to start dropping back on the meds soon, and I'm sure you'll be peeved then. I'll just be grateful for something that resembles sense coming out of you." 

"'s Grant?" He waved a hand, or at least he hoped he waved a hand. There was probably a high chance that he was peeing himself. "N Jell-O." 

"That's right. There will be plenty of Jell-O later on, Dr. McKay. For now, you're..." And whatever it was the nurse was saying, he must have drifted off and missed it. When he woke up, he hurt more, but he was a little more clear-headed, and John was there. 

A jumble of words spilled out, and he squinted at John for a moment, making sure his face was visible and real. "Hi." 

"Hey, there." John's hair was poking up in more directions than really seemed possible. "How you doing, buddy?" 

"Sore? 's..." It was hard to centralize, he hurt all over, from his neck to his knees, and his hands. Just one, but the other was kind of echoing it. " 's Grant?" 

"Yeah, uh. About that..." What was John going to say? Nothing good ever started like that. "He kind of came down through the air ducts and uh. Got caught. Visiting you." 

He jerked, and realized that the pain in his thigh and sort of below his stomach were the worst of them and sitting up had twigged them both, left him with new and interesting stabbing pains. "He what?" 

"Hey, hey. No... you know, sitting up. Or moving. Or anything like that. He's fine, they've... apparently he fixed some kind of bizarre backwards gate problem. Rumor has it Carter's halfway in love." 

"With Grant? He's okay?" Broke in, ventilation shafts? Grant liked his small spaces, so that didn't surprise Rodney much. He would have freaked out so badly he'd have given himself away before he even managed to crawl into one of the things. 

"Yeah, he's fine. Great. Rumor has it O'Neill's gonna get him clearance and everything, so stop worrying about Grant, okay? Worry about yourself." 

"I'm here?" He couldn't stay sitting up, though and when John had urged him to lay back down he'd laid back down. Everything hurt, and Grant was getting clearance. "Happened? I'm, what happened?" 

John leaned forward, close to him. "That last world wasn't exactly the friendliest place in the world. And, uh... yeah. I kind of... shot you. Getting you out." 

Irony, thy name was Stargate Command. Rodney looked up, and John was close enough for Rodney to count his pores. He decided to count John's eyelashes instead. "They had me, hurt, cut..." What was a bullet on top of that if it got him out? 

"I know." But he probably didn't, because John wouldn't have looked any closer than he had to, and now that he thought about it... now he thought about it, that was pretty serious pain. 

Deep, throbbing, and his hand was killing him. Right hand, too, and he wanted to look except he didn't. He knew looking at wounds made them brighter, sharper, but he needed to know at the same time. Rodney remembered the threats, the... "Oh god. 's everything still there?" 

"Yeah. Yeah, everything's okay, Rodney. It's all good. I promise." Except he had to be lying, he had to be, because... 

Every fucking planet that had mindless, Goa'uld worshipping natives had no idea what to do with a man with brains. They could've had potable water, generators, things that would've improved their lives dramatically, but somehow Rodney was the one who they picked to not utilize, no, that would've been too easy. Stringing him up and stripping him naked clearly made much more sense. 

Rodney hated his luck. 

"I promise," John said again, even though Rodney believed it almost as much as he believed Santa would be coming to give him a present first thing in the morning. Especially since it was June. 

"What happened?" Rodney decided that letting John get around to it wasn't convenient, and he didn't want to reach back into his memory and see for himself what it was. Because he could do it, he was no memory repressor, no traumatic-amnesia sufferer. He just preferred to shut it down, shut it out, and he could do it for as long as he wanted. 

"I don't know. I mean, not all of it. Aside from.. you know, the shooting. Thing. And there were... Anyway, I've been in a bed out in the ward." Rodney recognized that face. It was the one that said John had fucked himself up and didn't want to admit how badly. 

"What'd you do to yourself?" He tried to lean up, just craning his neck, trying to see below chest-level on John. 

"Nothing to worry about. I mean, they had me on the good drugs for a couple of days, so I, uh. Didn't remind them to call Grant. You know? Which explains why he was coming through the air ducts." 

John would say there was nothing to worry about even if he was bleeding to death. 

"Right. How bad off am I, then?" He was just going to ask that one last time, and hopefully John wouldn't make him grab the clipboard from the end of the bed. 

"Uh..." He was going to beat John to death with it... if he could sit up long enough. "Why don't I call the doc? She can explain it better than I can." 

"Cop-out," Rodney deadpanned. From what he remembered, it was pain, and he hadn't been able to turn his head, except to tip it backwards and stare at their thatched ceiling that he could tell was architecturally weak. It'd collapse on them if they hung anyone who weighed more than two-twenty from the ceiling, or a combined weight that added up to two-twenty, and Rodney guessed that their imminent crushing by stupidly heavy, undersecured beams was not that far away. He'd been expecting them to drag John or someone else into the hut with him, and that would've done it, right there. 

"Completely," John agreed, and he stood up, supporting himself and reaching for... yeah, crutches. Oh, God. 

"Ankle, or knee?" It made Rodney really want to be home, because in a different setting he could ask John that question differently, more to the point. He could... he could worry about it and he deserved to know, dammit. 

John shifted the crutches under his arms. "Left knee. I kind of, uh. Fucked it up, getting out, and then I carried you to the gate and I kind of fell on it. When we got back to the mountain." 

"When're you getting out?" He was thinking 'keys keys' at John, and he had no idea if John was picking up on it. John had keys to their house. Just, contingency things, part of that whole Telling Grant line of thought. Never mind that Grant was already in the depths of the mountain, and oh, God, what if they were going to lock him up or, or something worse, and... 

"Couple days. They've been giving me some pretty good stuff, so it's probably not so good. Feels okay right now, though. Hang on, lemme go get the doc." 

"Sure." He wanted to see Grant, wanted to know when he could go home, when they could get out of there, because when things went wrong in the mountain, it was the already-wounded who tended to die first. And Rodney had already had enough of Just-His-Luck. 

He was pretty sure he couldn't face much more of it. 

* * *

Doctor Beckett had been very kind when he'd given Rodney the bad news. Of course, most of the doctors in the mountain were Very Kind when they were handing over news like _I'm sorry your testicle got removed and was probably served as a bizarre offworld delicacy_ , so that shouldn't be any sort of surprise. 

Rodney was allowed to be in shock, though. It was his testicle, and he had two of them, sure, but the removal had been messy -- apparently kindly doctors sometimes felt like telling all of the gruesome details -- and he needed to be aware of infections. The rest of the cuts were not pretty, liable to heal up without too much by way of complication, and he had a shiny new bullet wound in his thigh, oh, and sometime his fingernails on three fingers of his right hand would grow back and he needed to get that looked at regularly so they didn't become ingrown. 

It just did not pay to get out of bed. Or, well, to wake up out of a drugged sleep. All things considered. 

At least someone had reassured him that Grant would be coming by and that everything was okay, insofar as his twin was concerned. 

'Okay' hopefully meant that Grant was going to be allowed to go home and take his meds, and oh, god, Rodney hoped Grant had taken his meds. And that the cats weren't eating 'treats' out of the litter in their absence. There were a couple of bowls of crunchies and water out for them in the house. 

He was in full-blown panic mode by the time Grant ambled in, looking as if he hadn't changed clothes in days, and he was practically bouncing off walls. That couldn't be good. "M-m-m-mer! Mer Mer Mer!" 

"Grant, Grant..." Rodney reached out, hoping to catch at him with hands and still him, make him rest for a minute. "When did you take your meds?" 

The roll of Grant's eyes was reassuring. Mostly. "Last, last night. Well, night-day, it's, it's very confusing here, but I, I came to see the nice Scottish doctor, the one who, who's been taking care of you? And and someone got my meds, and I scheduled my watch. To beep. When it was time. And I've been, I've been sleeping. Plenty. I've, I was, you were so... I was afraid." 

"I was pretty scared, too. You came down the air ducts?" He got his fingers on Grant's hand, and then Grant's other hand rested on top of Rodney's hands, and it possibly looked like a secret Mafia handshake. 

"Y-y-yeah. Because, because nobody would tell me anything. I, I, I kept calling and, and calling, and the guards wouldn't, they turned me away. When I asked. But I, I knew how to get to the, the, I could find the plans. Because they're stupid," and yes, well. Rodney knew that, but Grant was usually more polite. "So, so, so I, I came down. The only way I could." 

"They could've put you away forever, Grant. You shouldn't've, you..." Except he was pulling Grant in, because for, oh, the entire time he'd been in that hut, he'd thought he'd never see Grant again. 

"I had to." Had to, and Rodney knew why, because he'd done that. He'd gone into the impossible place fully intending to drag Grant out into the light, and they'd, they had managed. They had gotten out, and wow. Wow. "I had to, Mer." 

"I know." It was stupid and it was risky, but it made his chest hurt, made his eyes feel damp, and he slid fingers through Grant's hand once he got a hand free. "Jesus, Grant." 

"It's okay, Mer." Okay, and his brother was crawling halfway onto the bed with him, and ow, ow, ow, that hurt, but it was what he needed, really. Mer, and Mar, and yeah. 

Grant wasn't going to a hole in Area 51, and Rodney wasn't going to die from blood-loss, and he was on enough antibiotics that infection was pretty unlikely, and he, he could rest. He could hug onto Grant and just be glad that they were both okay, and later he could deal with the fact that he was missing parts, that he'd been hurt, but he didn't want to turn it over in his mind just then. He didn't want to think about it just now, and Grant was murmuring to him, soft nonsense words that wouldn't make any sense to anybody else, barely made any sense to them, but it made him feel better. Feel okay, maybe even. 

It was familiar, Grant's voice -- his own, but pitched softer, tilted a different way -- words, mumbles and promises, and if he wasn't allowed to go home yet, he could have that piece of comfort, squished into a too-small bed with Grant, just feeling. Grant was okay, alive, and it barely seemed to register for Rodney that he was the one who'd been in trouble. Things were okay. Things were the way they should be. 

For once, Rodney thought, maybe everything would turn out all right. 

* * *

Sometimes, a man looked at his sick-leave and went 'that's just not enough' and took a little vacation time onto the end of it for the hell of it. It wasn't like he was expecting to have time to drive cross-country anytime soon, because John didn't much want to see his father and brother. He sort of wanted to go back up to Canada, just to reaffirm his American-turned-Canadian identity. 

The next best thing was crashing on the couch in a full on, militant Canadian house. Sometimes, when the news was on TV, John wondered why Rodney didn't have tiny flags taped to the cat's tails except that Peanut Butter was kind of retarded, and John just didn't see that ending well. 

Jelly, on the other hand... well. He might try that one of these days, just to see what she'd do. He didn't figure Rodney or Grant would protest too much, all things considered. Hell, he was just surprised one of them hadn't done it already. 

He could, possibly, get Grant to admit to it. 

"You know what pisses me off the most? That they pulled my fingernails out. They didn't even have a target of information they were trying to get out of me. It was just for the hell of it. Just to get me to agree that Hadad or whoever it was was a really swell guy. 's..." Rodney was sort of kind of on his third beer. Rodney had denied being a two beer queer, and Grant had chipperly agreed that Rodney didn't need beer at all. 

Sometimes, watching them made John vaguely uneasy. They were terrifyingly similar, but there were also strange undercurrents that he wasn't sure he could address. It was probably best if he didn't, in all honesty. 

Some things, he didn't think he really need to know. 

"It'll be okay, Rodney. Beckett wasn't worried, and you know he's kind of an old lady about things." 

"Hmmph. He's good at it." Rodney slouched, feet up on the coffee table. He had on clean white sport socks, with grey bottoms. Perma-grey. Well, John had a fucked up knee and wasn't dressed any better, so he wasn't going to say anything. He liked slouching beside Rodney's slouch, while Grant sprawled on the other sofa, a book in front of him. "Doctoring, not, maybe the old lady thing. Still. I need my hands. You need your knee." 

"I, I, I think you should both stop, stop whining. Because, because you're alive," Grant reminded him, and then ducked his head back behind his book so that Rodney's potential glare might float over him. "An-an-and I'm not in trouble. Much." 

He kind of had a point there. 

"They gave you the security clearance," Rodney agreed, and John watched him wrap his lips around the mouth of the beer bottle, taking just a little swig from it. "I wonder if I could get away with getting therapy again, without losing mine." 

John couldn't stop the snort he gave. "Hey. They keep O'Neill down there, and I'm thinking that's a sign if ever there was one." Because. Yeah. 

That guy was a headcase. But Rodney had a weird expression on his face, and he leaned forwards slowly, un-slouching. "Yeah, but I've, I put it off for years because I always was told that that was why Grant couldn't get clearance." Well, the SGC made things happen, and Rodney looked like the light had finally dawned for him. "Which was the most baffling thing because how many of the Marines on base do you think have PTSD? Half of them?" 

He didn't have the heart to tell Rodney that even if anybody had it, they sure as hell didn't admit to it. Then again, he had been shuffled off on psych staff in the infirmary before. Maybe things worked differently at the SGC after all. Even if it left him wondering about Grant and the previous security clearance issue. "There's a Heightmeyer. Has an office just off of the infirmary. Maybe that's a good idea." And Jesus, Rodney should have been in therapy, because John still had nightmares about that night, Rodney and his skeletal counterpoint, both of them vibrating and terrified and desperate. 

"Try there first. Sure." Rodney settled his beer on the vague curve of his belly, and John watched that, too. It was nice just to relax and watch some crappy TV and drink, and in a little while him and Rodney would go back to the bedroom and he could stop looking and start touching. 

Shifting, he moved so that it wasn't obvious how the thought affected him, even after they'd been fucking for a while. He was practically living with them, for God's sake, his apartment had dust an inch thick all over everything. "'s a good idea. Better than nothing anyway, right?" Right. Definitely. 

"Grant's been trying to get me to go for years." Now that he was practically living with them, the closeness between the two of them was past obvious and had entered that vaguely creepy stage. John didn't want to bring it up, but maybe he should. When Rodney didn't have a messed up hand, maybe. 

Definitely when he started therapy because.. yeah. Having fantasies about twins in bed might be totally hot, but the actual idea of it was kind of fucked up. In the bad way. 

"He, he, he spends too much time worrying about me. It's not, I don't think it's healthy." 

Plus, John needed to find Grant a girlfriend. Rumor had it there was a sweet redhead in the botany department. He wondered if the guy's predilection for blondes ever stretched any. 

It probably did, because Rodney had mentioned that Grant had dated a red-head back when they worked in Area-51, a showgirl. Grant and showgirls were sort of a running joke that made John want to gawk. Watching the two of them wander and talk to the cats and just be inside of the house made it seem sort of impossible to John. 

Then again, Rodney had once sort of embarrassedly confided that he'd done a gang bang by accident. So John was probably underestimating them both. "Says the man who crawled through the air ducts," Rodney countered. "Not that I'm complaining! It's worked out well." 

"And none of us got arrested or died," John agreed, and wow. Maybe they'd better work on their definition of successful, there. 

He shifted uncomfortably, pushing at the pillow under his knee. A glance at the clock showed that he had another hour to wait before he could have meds again, and the ways in which that sucked didn't bear discussion. 

Rodney laughed, peering over at him this time. "Welcome to Stargate Command -- where a pulse is a good day. I always thought things were screwy at Area 51, but. This place takes the cake." 

And John couldn't help grinning at him, because yeah. Yeah. "So do you." 

"Asshole." Rodney leaned over, though, pressed a kiss against his mouth, and started to move to get up. "Time to feed the cats before they eat us. You guys want anything? Food, another round from chez fridge?" 

"Chocolate?" 

That, more than anything, made it just another night at the McKays'. "Another beer and some of those..." John wasn't sure what they were, but they were good. "Cheese things." 

"Cheese straws." Rodney ducked into the kitchen, which sort of left him and Grant alone, except the house had a big, open plan thing going on, with a big vaulted ceiling, and he could see Rodney rattling around in the kitchen area. 

"I know what you're thinking." 

John blinked at him, not even sure what he was supposed to say about that. "Yeah?" 

"Yeah." Grant was bright eyes, and he shifted on his sofa, wielding the book and nudging a cat from behind his legs. "We, we, we used to, uh. Used to. But you're good for him and we don't, we haven't in a while. You matter." 

If that was supposed to make him feel better, John was pretty sure Grant needed lessons in that. "You don't, uh. You haven't told anybody else about it, have you?" 

"No." There was an eyeroll, like Grant thought John was brain damaged. "And, and, and I like women. I like, uhm, you know." The hand gesture was a rounding motion about chest high, that made John want to choke on what was left of his beer. Christ, there were conversations he never needed to have, and this one was high on the list. First place kind of position. 

"Breasts." Which were okay, in John's opinion, but he'd always been more of an ass man, himself. They were equally fantastic regardless of gender. 

Grant's cheeks colored unevenly red, and were still red when Rodney slipped back in with a piece of a chocolate bar and beers. "Here, uh..." 

"Thank God," John blurted, because they absolutely did not need to finish any of that conversation. Not even a little bit. "Uh. Yeah. Thanks. Thank you. Can we...?" Never speak of any of it ever again. 

Grant ran two fingers over his mouth like he was closing a zipper, and Rodney looked between them. "What?"' 

"Some things, the world may never know." Hey. If it worked for the owl in those Tootsie Pop commercials, John figured it might work for him. "Sit down before you fall down." 

"I need to get the cheese straws." He stuck a beer in John's other hand, and retreated back to the kitchen. 

Dammit. 

"Hey, how do you feel about redheads?" Because there was strawberry blonde and then there was red, and he totally planned on finagling an introduction to that botanist. Somehow. 

Grant looked thoughtful, and completely not-offended as he settled cross-legged onto the sofa. "Oh, uh. Girls? They're nice, if, if they're nice." 

"But you don't like Major Carter." That was possibly the understatement of the century. Grant was actively rude to Major Carter, which made John snicker. For the most part, it seemed to appall the better part of the complex. 

"Her idea of, of 'good enough' is going to get you all killed one day," Grant was saying when Rodney came back into the living room and set down a bowl of the cheese straws. "Her code is, it's wrecked." 

"See, I've told her that and she's scoffed at me, keeps saying we can't take the gate down for four or five days for proper diagnostics." 

Yeah, well. John had no idea, but he was pretty sure he'd take two McKays over one Carter. That made him a minority, but what the hell. "Now I'm gonna be nervous every time I go through the thing. Crap." 

"Don't, don't worry. I'm, I think we're going to be able to talk them into some, well. Re-coding." Grant nodded, and he reached out for the chocolate Rodney had laid on the coffee table. 

"Remember, I have to go through that gate, too. It should be as safe as it could possibly be, barring any more natural accidents." Rodney sat back down, and stretched his legs out in front of him. "Want to watch a movie?" 

That sounded fantastic. Between the beer and the cheese straws, maybe a movie would keep his mind off of the fact that his knee was starting to throb like a son of a bitch. "You choose." 

"I, I, I'll put it in." Grant got up off his couch. 

Rodney muffled a yawn, and slowly opened his beer. "Mmm, something actiony so I don't pass out." 

Actiony turned out to be Indiana Jones, which was good. It was familiar, fun, and hey. Who couldn't appreciate a movie about a guy with a fedora and a whip? The only sad part was that John finished his beer, took his pain meds despite the warnings, and was halfway passed out before they got to the part with the umbrella and the birds. 

He woke up again when the stupid German chick took the cup past the seal, and he groggily watched the end with the feeling that he wasn't the only one who'd passed out. Rodney looked supremely relaxed, with Jelly on his lap. Grant's eyes were still closed, and he was stretched out on his belly, the wrapper of the chocolate bar in his hand. and Peanut Butter sitting on his back. 

Pain, John figured, warned off curious cats. 

"...'ey, Rodney." He nudged gently, trying to get Rodney awake enough to talk to him. John had noticed that Rodney didn't tend to wake up coherent unless he had science on the brain. 

"Hmnh?" Rodney's head rolled a little, lolling back against the pillow behind him until he opened his eyes to narrow slits. 

"Wake up, McKay. 's time to go to bed." Or something like that, anyway. 

"Umh." Rodney started to sit up, and then stopped, and reached down to adjust his boxers. "Stupid seam. Time 's it?" 

Like John had any idea. "Time for bed." 

"Bed time sounds g'd." Rodney started to get off the sofa, moving in shuffles that made John want to laugh. But he popped the tape out, and waved it vaguely towards Grant. 

"He's comfortable," John offered, because Grant was out, face down and snoring in slow, steady snuffles of breath. "Leave 'im alone." 

"Okay." The tape ended up on the coffee table, and Rodney stood there, swaying for a moment before he held his hand out to John. "C'mon." 

John took it, but he mostly pushed himself up off of the couch. "For a guy who's been shot and..." Yeah. Well. They weren't talking about the whole missing testicle thing. At all. Ever. Or the surgery they'd done to replace it, either. "And everything, you sure move around a lot. And totally ignore Beckett, by the way." 

"Please, I've had..." Rodney stopped and shook his head. "Not worse, but. Also, for a guy with a fucked up knee, you're moving a lot. We should camp out in bed. Move the TV in there." 

"Then Grant would fall asleep in bed with us." Which just made John twitch even more now. "C'mon." He had Rodney's hand, and they were both limping their way towards the bedroom. "And the cats. That'd never end well." 

"They don't make beds any bigger." Rodney went along with him, moving slowly, but so was John. What a mess. At least they could sleep off the beer in comfort together. Rodney did have a nice bed, soft thin sheets. There was probably room for him and Grant, but it'd probably leave John a twitching mess just thinking about it. 

Well. More like it did. "'s okay. I'm gonna introduce him to the pretty botanist. You know." 

"Parrish?" 

Jesus. Where Rodney's brain came up with that, John couldn't guess. "No not Parrish. What makes you think he's pretty?" 

"Oh, uh..." Rodney waved a hand. "Kind of flaming, all over one of the other officers, you know what? Forget I said anything." Rodney shrugged his shirt off, moving stiffly. He used his thumb on his right hand in lieu of fingers a lot, and John probably should have helped him. Should have, but his knee was kind of killing him, so he shifted into bed stiffly, rolling until he was in position on his back. 

"That's getting really old," he grunted. 

"Clearly, you're not forgetting," Rodney snipped, sliding out of his boxers. "Or it wouldn't get old. But what botanist?" 

John eyed Rodney's ass thoughtfully. "The pretty one. With the red hair. I figured it was close enough to blonde to make him happy, and redheads tend to be feisty. Right?" 

"Well, we could try introducing him to her, and by 'we' I mean you, because I've probably yelled at her at some point. Grant's very forgive and forget, so if it goes badly, he moves on... very well." Rodney leaned carefully over the bed, and yeah, he was over-doing it, but he was helping John slide out of his sweat-pants and John sort of squirmed to get his t-shirt off. John could see all of his slices, the black tufts of stitches that had been redone a few times, the bits where skin had healed up correctly, laid over old scars. 

He didn't stare at Rodney's balls. 

"Yeah, so I've heard. Didn't that showgirl he used to date call the other day? Something about a divorce?" Because of course none of Grant's exes would hold anything against him. 

"She married someone else and then divorced him, and..." Rodney curved fingers against John's hip, apparently happy to stand there and look down at John before he carefully moved the fabric down around John's wreck of a knee. "He still loves her. Kind of. He's Grant." 

Yeah, and really. Okay, Grant and Rodney occasionally had... relations but all things considered, John figured that they were a lot less fucked up than they might have been. He hissed a little as the pants came all the way past his knee, but then he was naked and everything was better. "Yeah. That's... the best explanation I've ever heard." 

"I have no explanation. He has happy cheery breakups and they still come back to him years after." And Rodney, not so much. But Grant was too sweet, and Rodney was sweet when he least expected it, being careful about John's knee even when he crawled carefully back into bed himself. "Umph. We should move our aerobic sitting around party outside tomorrow." 

"You'll spend all of that time bitching about sunscreen." It made John smile anyway, because yeah. Spending time on the patio in the sunshine, shorts on, legs stretched out. John could go for that, he thought, settling in as Rodney shifted to rest against his side. "Hey, you." 

The edge of Rodney's mouth quirked up. "Hey, you. Funny meeting you here." Rodney leaned a little, pressed his mouth against John's again. "This takes a lot of creativity, you know." 

"Yeah, well. Between the two of us, we might actually be okay enough for full-on sex in... what? A month? Something like that?" Yeah, and when they finally reached that point. John was going to pull out that book of positions his ex-girlfriend had left at his place and they were going to try all of the really outrageous ones. 

Or at least the ones that they could actually bend into. 

"Something like that." Rodney moved, and John imagined that rolling sort of upright like that had to hurt his stomach. "I can still give you a blowjob." 

John thought about it. Seriously thought about it, because... blowjob. What kind of man would he be if he didn't at least think about it before turning it down? "Nah," he said finally. "But I bet we could trade hand jobs a little easier." 

"I did a really lazy pushup for no reason at all." It was a gripe that made John smirk while Rodney laid back down, shoulder against the thick padding of his mattress, pressed close to John's side. He reached down, slow and easy, and slid his hand over the curve of Rodney's belly, thumb lingering at his navel. 

"Yeah, well. I appreciate the thought." 

"Good." Rodney took a shaky breath, and he slid his left hand over John's chest, petting at his chest hair like it was a familiar comfort. Maybe it was, because he turned his head, resting it a little closer to John's, and John managed to kiss the tip of his nose even as he slid his hand down to cup Rodney's cock. 

It was mostly soft, even a couple of weeks post surgery, and he'd been tentative about touching, about getting him hard, getting him off. He hadn't known how to ask about it, either. 

He needed to work on that. With Rodney, there was a lot that was just picked up on, but there was a lot that did need to be said, too. "Yeah. That's good. That's..." He shifted, just a little, mostly to slide his hand to thumb John's right nipple. It felt good, because Rodney always felt good, whatever he did. He might be biased, but John didn't think he was. Not really. 

"Easy. Just... easy." He stroked, slow and easy, and felt Rodney getting hard, filling his hand. 

It took longer than usual, but John's knee distracted him from it, too. It was funny that the thing that relaxed a guy the most was the hardest thing to do when that kind of relaxing was needed the most. He wished Rodney was using both hands, but he couldn't, wasn't comfortable with it yet, and that was okay. He could wait his turn, jack Rodney slow and careful, and see how it went. 

By the time Rodney was really hard and sort of moving into it, he was sliding a hand down to John's dick, like he'd meant to get there and he'd forgotten along the way. 

"Hey." It was soft, quiet, easy to murmur against Rodney's sweaty temple. "I can wait. 's good." 

"I thought I was more sober than I actually am," Rodney murmured, kissing his neck while he slid his thumb over the head of John's dick. He let the tip linger against the piss-slit, a motion that never failed to make John shift his hips, try to push into that touch. 

"Yeah, well. You and me both. But you're kinda horny when you're tipsy, so 's all good." 

"Hmph, I'm kind of horny with you, period." Rodney shifted just a little closer, fingers curling loosely around the shaft. "Sometime, we should remember the lube." 

"Sometime when my knee'll handle crawling and your thigh won't make me worry about bleeding," John agreed, but he didn't stop stroking. He didn't stop the slow, easy motion of his wrist, or the rub just on the underside of the head that Rodney liked best. 

Rodney was all twists of his hips, slow motions, and he was trying to get John to reach that sort of squirm or fuck John's fist level that he was clearly on. "You old romantic." 

"That's me." And yeah, okay, that was... that was okay, that wasn't bad at all, but he could hang on, at least until he got Rodney where they were going. He was kind of sleepy, and still kind of drunk, and definitely still horny. So. 

Where they were going. Where they were going was to bed, and they were already in that particular there. Rodney was slowly starting to get into it, really into it, when he crossed that line between enjoying it and lost in it, groaning against John's skin. 

It felt good, doing that, making Rodney go to pieces against him, feeling him shudder his way through orgasm like John had done something special. "Yeah. Yeah." Yeah, because he'd been worried about it, but it was going to work out okay. 

Everything, John figured, was going to work out fine for them. Rodney leaned over, kissed his chin, his jaw, that motion that told John that Rodney was tasting. But his hand was moving, and he was starting to stroke harder. "Hmn, hmn." 

Just like that, and it was uncomfortable to move the way he wanted, but he still had one good knee. It was enough, made it easy to push up into Rodney's touch, fuck the clasp of his hand, and yeah. Oh, fuck, that just.. right there, because Rodney was still blissed out, but he knew how John liked it, and he was... yeah, fuck yes. Hard and firm, with his thumb moving, playing with the head of John's cock. It made John wish he was uncircumcised, because Rodney loved playing with his cockhead. 

John damn sure liked it, too, and in another few minutes, he was bucking into it, knee injury or no knee injury, and panting for breath while he rode it out, sticky hot and shaking. 

All the while, Rodney kissed him, tasted him, slipped his tongue into John's mouth. And when John had come, Rodney mumbled something about a face cloth and slid backwards out of bed. 

"Keep movin' aroun' li' tha' and you're gonna...." Hurt something, but John's brain was as slurry as his mouth, so he dropped back on the pillow, for just a minute. 

Just... a minute. 

* * *

He hadn't wanted to go, but John kept saying he should. 

John had also sworn that Rodney didn't need 'that much' sun screen, which he had. He had a reddish glow now, from his stomach to his neck, and from his knees to his toes. Grant had sounded up for spraying the hose around, and Rodney couldn't remember having that much fun, associated with the outdoors, since they'd been in foster care. But still, he was sunburned. 

Sunburned and going to therapy. 

So much for fun, then. 

He'd gone into the mountain because they had therapists on staff, apparently, people who were supposed to talk them down from bad experiences offworld more than entire shitty lives. Still. They were apparently prepared to do the listening and Rodney was going to do the talking, whether he liked it or not. 

He'd see where it went from there, pressing onwards because John seemed to think he needed help. 

And Rodney, maybe, thought he needed help. Sometimes things were good, and he'd been good, great, stable since coming to Colorado Springs. It was the house and the job and Grant and John, all working in conjunction to keep him together, and he'd only had a couple of issues. But he wanted to keep it that way. 

So, he knocked on Heightmeyer's door, looking up and down the hallway, like lurking was going to make it less obvious he was talking to a shrink. 

It was stupid. He knew it was stupid, because Grant had amazingly good therapists and psychiatry was much less of a madman's crapshoot than it had been thirty years ago, hell, ten years ago, but he was still terrified. In so many ways. 

He jumped when the door opened, a blonde with almond shaped eyes looking at him with a friendly smile. "Good morning, Dr. McKay. I've been expecting you." 

Yes, yes. Said the spider to the fly and all of that. 

"Oh, uh. Good, I guess. Just don't tell me you've been expecting me since I transferred here." He stepped inside when she backed up, and closed the door behind himself. 

"No, Dr. McKay. I haven't been expecting you that long. Of course, I've been hoping you would come see me after your most recent experience offworld." She looked at him earnestly. "I'm glad you called. Why don't you have a seat?" 

"Thank you." He closed his hands firmly against the ends of the chair arms. "That's what... spurred me to come. I was wondering what the repercussions of seeing you would be." 

Heightmeyer settled in a chair across from him, and waved a hand towards a coffee pot. "No repercussions, doctor. What we discuss here remains private until you threaten harm to yourself or to others in a serious way. I think most of the base would be better off if we had regular required sessions. Of course, I could be biased. Would you like some coffee?" 

"Please." He rubbed at his eyes. "I've been off, and my sleep schedule is all screwed up." John had been sleeping when he'd crawled out of bed, so Rodney had spitefully stuck Jelly under the covers up near John's face and left to use Grant's shower. By the time he'd gotten dry and headed back towards the bedroom, he could smell coffee. 

Mission accomplished. 

"Do you take cream or sugar?" It was as polite and stiff as visiting Jeannie's grandmother, in a way, and weirdly not at all like that at the same time. Heightmeyer was a therapist of some sort, for God's sake. He didn't have to be polite to her. 

He didn't have to be polite to anyone, and he usually wasn't, so the whole scene, the whole moment had to be what was throwing him off. His own sense of anticipation and fear, and why was he scared? "Sugar. So, uh... I haven't done this in a while." 

"Why don't you tell me about before? If you're comfortable discussing it, of course." She offered him his cup and the sugar dish, a spoon and a saucer. 

"I was in therapy for a while for..." There had to be a good way to phrase it. "Anger management issues when I was younger. Mostly, it helped me cope with Grant. I wasn't good at it then, either." 

"Well, good is all relative, isn't it?" She smiled at him and sank back in her own chair, cradling her cup in her hands. "You had a hard time with anger then. Do you still have problems?" 

"No." It was an easy enough answer, and Rodney slowly uncurled his fingers from the chair to lean forwards and take the mug from her desk. "I say what's on my mind." 

"There's nothing wrong with honesty. Do you feel like that's what you've offering when you do that?" 

"Yes. It's better than keeping it to myself. I keep a criticism of an experiment to myself out of politeness, we could all die." He took a sip of the coffee. 

"That seems reasonable." She mirrored him with a sip, and maybe that was part of this whole thing, or maybe he was overanalyzing, well. Everything. "Why don't you tell me about your past. Let's talk about why you were so angry." 

As if it wasn't in his file. 

"I think you already know," Rodney countered back. The coffee tasted watery, and he didn't find it very endearing. 

Gently, she shifted forward, put down her cup. "Yes. So do you. But sometimes, it helps, talking about things. What we need is somewhere to start. Can you help me give you that, Rodney?" 

There, that was the patronizing bullshit he was used to with therapists. "Sure, fine. Yes. Once upon a time, my mother locked my brother and myself and my father's corpse into the cellar. Then a few years later, I had a reaction to mayo, and she decided she could still toy with me upstairs, and somewhere in there she started to force me to have sex with her, and my brother and I are very likely codependent." 

That didn't bowl her over, didn't even seem to faze her, really. "That wouldn't be very surprising. All things considered, I think it would be more of a surprise if you weren't." 

"Right, so." Rodney shrugged his shoulders, trying to get her to move on. Or move usefully. "There's that." 

"You live with your brother, don't you? I seem to think you've lived together since you were removed from MIT and placed into foster care with Mr. and Mrs. Ormiston." She was still drinking her awful weak coffee. "I know that Dr. McKay... the other Dr. McKay, of course... has been in therapy for quite some time, but you've managed to avoid it." 

Avoid it was a good word, actually. "I wanted to keep my security clearance." 

Heightmeyer leaned back, as if she'd been given something she wanted. It was enough to make Rodney jittery. "And do you think it was worth it?" 

"I'm still here." He clutched tightly at his mug. "So, yes." 

That seemed to satisfy her. It worried him, but then, this whole thing set him on edge. "What do you love about this job? The job that you do here, under the mountain." 

"What don't I love would be easier to list." He was still clutching tightly to his mug. "I like it. I love going offworld, I love learning new scientific applications. This is so far removed from my hole in the wall lab in Area 51, and it's more hands on." 

"So... you enjoy the actual process of science. More than the theoretical science?" 

"I suppose so. I've had an opportunity to put more things that I'd grown up thinking of as theory to actual use than most people can even dream of." Rodney loved it, loved getting hands on. Loved making Goa'uld shit work for them the way they wanted. Loved the tiny bits of tech that they were sure came from the same people who made the Stargate. 

"Tell me more about it." It was an invitation, and Rodney could take her up on that where he wasn't ready to tell her more about other things, things that mattered. 

"You work here," Rodney pointed out. "This place stretches the imagination. Wormholes, real functioning stable wormholes that we use but can't understand, and we're nowhere near to understanding how they were built. We still need to create whole new maths to encompass the conceptualization of the physics of it." 

She nodded, as if she understood, even though he didn't think any of the soft sciences really could. "And are you excited that Grant will be getting to work with you, too?" 

"Of course." He'd probably help them come up with the 'whole new maths'. Rodney hadn't actually worked without Grant since his mother had brought him above stairs, so being locked under the mountain with no recourse had been... Well. Difficult. 

"That's good to know, Rodney. Would you like some more coffee?" 

"No, I'm okay. It's sort of bitter." He'd only drank half a cup, and something tasted... off about it. Something was missing. Too much water, maybe. 

She was attractive, and very nice, and he was still pretty much on edge. This would take a lot of getting used to, getting therapy. In more ways than one. "Oh. Well, next time I'll try to do better." 

He lifted his eyebrows at her. "I have coffee back at the house, but thanks. So, uh..." 

"So, we still have another twenty minutes." 

"That as what I was thinking." Rodney swallowed, looking down into his mug. "So." 

"So. Why don't we go back to anger management." 

"I'm not angry anymore," Rodney offered as a preface, wondering what other questions she might ask with the last twenty painful minutes. 

This? This was going to be harder than it looked. 

* * *

The smell was fantastic. 

There was just something about grilling meat that called to a man, somehow. Maybe it was the fire. Maybe it was the smoke. 

Mostly, Grant was pretty sure it was the meat. 

He liked his charred and crispy, almost carbon at the edges. John had cut big bratwursts down the middle for him and splayed them out for better charring, while Rodney preferred his next-to mooing. 

They had a nice back yard, one that was meant for this kind of thing. This kind of thing being a barbecue, of course, with people. Actual people, at their house, and that was pretty neat. 

Especially Lieutenant Cadman. 

She was bright, and smiling, and he liked her ponytail and her funny braying kind of laugh. Not that it was anywhere near John's. John laughed, and he sounded like a donkey from Pinocchio, and Rodney leaned over and poked John in the stomach in the hopes he could stop him. When Cadman brayed, Grant just wanted to sidle up to her and stick around. 

The fact that she didn't seem to mind when he did, well. That was pretty great, too. 

"So, so... you're going to keep going. Through the gate, I mean. It's, you enjoy it? Rodney seems to like it." And if he and John were a little too friendly at the grill, well. It wasn't like they weren't among friends. 

"Oh yeah. It's what I do." She gestured with half of her burger. "I used to spend my time rotting in bases, running laps, and going through complicated training with no sense of when I could go active. Here, I'm out there every day, but I get to come home to my bed and my dog at night. It's a pretty sweet life. What're you going to be doing on base?" 

"We're, Rodney and I, we're going over Carter's coding. Because, because, well, it doesn't... it kind of sucks." There were security protocols and dialing variables that she hadn't even considered, and the fact that they hadn't brought somebody in to double check her work made Grant's teeth clench. It made Rodney cuss, though, which was always entertaining. "But, but I'll be working in the labs, mostly. With computers. I'm, I'm very good with them." Well. That was something of an understatement. 

"Yeah?" She asked it, but she seemed sufficiently impressed, and kept eating her burger, eyeing him. "I bet you are. But you don't want to go offworld, huh?" 

That was a good question. "Well..." The short answer was that yes, of course he wanted to go offworld. Rodney went, and Grant had gotten into the habit of following Mer in all the things he did. The long answer was much more complicated. "I, I'd have to pass a lot of, of testing. I'm just, I'm glad that I'm able to work under the mountain now. It's, they didn't want me to. We have... Well." 

"Your whole shimmying down the vents thing has gotten around the base." Cadman seemed to consider that, and then added, "Gossip gets around." 

He wondered if that meant she'd think he was crazy. "They, no one would tell me. About Rodney. And I, I had to know." 

"Hey, I understand. It's sort of funny -- I mean, most of us would do something like that around here," Cadman smiled. "Sheppard jumped down from a wooden cage to get Rodney. He couldn't wait for me to cut the ropes, nooo..." 

"That explains the knee. He, I think he'd have called. Ordinarily. So that I wouldn't have to climb down the... and really, if they're so obsessed with security, you'd think they'd have those blocked off." Yeah. "So. So. You enjoy going offworld." 

John called out, interrupting their conversation. "Hey. We're gonna be ready in another ten or fifteen minutes." 

Steak. Steak and potatoes and corn, and John was an awesome cook. Grant wanted to keep him around, but he figured that Rodney was going to keep him around anyway. "Yeah, I like it. And so does your brother. It's not for everyone, a~and we need someone to save our asses from Earthside." 

Grant beamed at her, chin dropping so he could peek up at her through his lashes. "I, I'd love to do that. Especially since..." Hers was rather lovely. 

She gave a startled laugh, and nudged him in the arm. "Grant!" 

"Well." Things were working out. He liked Laura, much more than he had liked the wishy-washy redhead John had introduced him to. "Just... so you know." 

"Heh." She pushed him, a gentle playful motion, one handed, and took a step forward. "Heh. C'mon, let's harass Sheppard for a steak." 

He got up, followed her, because it seemed like a good idea, a great thing to do. "And brats." Because those would be done by now, and maybe Rodney would be finished making the salad, too. 

All in all, it looked like it was going to be a pretty good day. 

It didn't take much. Not much. A little hope and some food, and a nice back yard, and a job. If Grant thought about it, he had a lot. They had friends there, people they worked with. 

They had each other, and not in the messed up way their mother had made them. They had everything anybody could ask for.


End file.
